


Fidele

by misslucyjane



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drug Use, Hauntings, Kid Fic, M/M, PTSD, Paranormal, Romance Novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2018-07-12 00:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 178,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7077853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslucyjane/pseuds/misslucyjane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A house full of ghosts is no place to fall in love.</p><p>Malcolm Carmichael has been coping with his post-war trauma by taking lovers, teaching art to schoolboys, and trying to ignore the ghosts he sees everywhere. At the death of his mother, he realizes he wants more than just to coast on by, and leaves the exclusive school in search of something more.</p><p>Caleb Thibodeaux was so traumatized by the death of his parents in a fire that he hasn't spoken a word since. His uncle Noel hires Malcolm to be his tutor, and Malcolm discovers that Caleb is not the only Thibodeaux son with secrets. The plantation house Fidele is beautiful but haunted, and Noel is much the same.</p><p>Soon Malcolm is absorbed in protecting Caleb and Noel from threats both living and dead, and in uncovering the story of Fidele.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Malcolm

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an experiment. It is completed -- mostly! :D -- and I'll be releasing it as a serialized novel ~~with a new chapter updated every Friday.~~
> 
> Update to the posting schedule: Due to some newly-diagnosed medical issues, I need to reduce the amount of time I spend at the keyboard. It's nothing life-threatening, but it is in my hands and arms; and since the day job requires me to be at the keyboard, I have to cut back on the extracurriculars.
> 
> I'll update _Fidele_ when I can, but I can't promise a regular schedule.
> 
> Update2: This story is now complete.

The weather was so fine that day that when my afternoon art class (eighteen first-, second-, and third-graders) begged to have class outside, I agreed. I told the boys to get mats from a cupboard to sit on, wrote a note on the chalkboard of where we would be in case anyone came looking for us, and herded a noisy gaggle of young boys, eager to spend a spring afternoon outside, from the art room to the school grounds.

 

Goodwin Academy was located outside of Louisville, close enough to the city that many parents could visit their boys every weekend. The ages of Goodwin students ranged from six to thirteen; thanks to some severe bullying incidents a few generations before, we kept the boys mostly separated by age except for meals. My art classes were one of the few instances when several grades would meet together, which meant that two of my lover's sons, Alan and Frankie Davenport, were both in the class.

As we left the tidy gardens for the woods just beyond the school grounds, the boys ran ahead except for Alan, who had volunteered to carry a folding wooden chair for me, and Frankie. He was only six and still shy around other bigger boys unless Alan was was nearby, and tended to stick close to his side.

On this walk, though, he stuck close to me, and his hand slipped into mine that wasn't holding my cane. "Mr. Malcolm?"

"Yes, Frankie?" I answered.

"Um," he said and looked at Alan, who was walking by my other side with the folding chair awkward in his arms. "Can I carry your satchel?"

I started to say no, I could handle it, but then looked down at Frankie's hopeful face. He had his father's dark eyes and hair and olive skin, but had inherited a dusting of freckles from his mother. "Sure," I said and stopped long enough to drape it over his shoulder. "Thank you."

He grasped the strap with both hands. His walk took on a little bit of a strut, and I hid my smile. I tried not to show any favoritism to the Davenport boys no matter how often I fucked their father, but it was hard not to favor them when they were so sweet.

I had told the boys to wait at the dry creek bed, so by the time I reached it they were gathered on the banks, their mats and pencil case abandoned on the grass as they chased each other in an impromptu game of tag. I had them sit and thanked Alan for setting up the folding chair for me, and eased into it, my bad leg stretched out in front of me.

"All right, boys," I said, "today's assignment is to take ten minutes and find one thing -- a branch or a leaf or a rock, something small -- and draw just that one thing. Now, now," I said, holding up my hand at their groans, "I know you like drawing battleships and airplanes and what-not. Later. Master the little things first. Then you can move onto the bigger ones."

Off into the woods they scampered. I shouted, "Ten minutes!" and noted the time on my wristwatch so I could call them back.

I had no illusions that any of my students would become artists. The most talented might become graphic designers; there might be future engineers or architects in my classes, but most of them took art because they had to, not because they enjoyed it, and would do little more in twenty years than occasionally doodle on their blotters as they invested money or practiced law. I had been praised for my talent since I was small, but even I taught high school French before the war rather than try to make a living painting or illustrating.

Sometimes I toyed with the idea of going back to Europe and studying art properly in Paris, but that seemed like a pursuit for men whom the war had left whole, or at least less visibly broken than me.

As I waited for the boys to return -- one ear cocked for sounds of trouble -- I took my own sketch pad out of my satchel and opened it to a blank page. My classroom sketchbooks were sanitary to the point of dullness -- studies of hands or faces, copies of Old Masters, the occasional stiff life -- and I decided to do the assignment along with my students. Things I actually enjoyed drawing stayed in the sketchbooks I showed no one, carefully locked away in my rooms.

The boys began to trickle back, and many of them proudly showed me the pretty leaves or interesting rocks they had found. With Alan's help, Frankie even found a stick with a caterpillar crawling up it, which we carefully set up in a clump of grass so the caterpillar would want to stay long enough for Frankie to draw it.

When ten minutes has passed, I shouted, "Time's up!" and left our little group to gather the rest of the boys. I did a quick headcount once they were seated on their mats, and all eighteen were soon bent over their drawing pads, pencils or crayons grasped tightly in their fingers. I walked among them as much as the uneven ground would permit me, using my cane for balance when I needed to stoop down and talk to the boys.

I was advising one of the boys on how to capture a particularly complicated vein in a leaf when Alan said, "Mr. Malcolm, I hear shouting."

My hearing hadn't been the same since the war, so it took a moment for me to hear it too -- a voice that sounded like the headmaster of the school, Archie Goodwin, shouting, "Malcolm! Malcolm Carmichael!"

"Stay here, boys," I said and climbed up the path that led from the creek bed to the woods beyond. I saw Archie on the main trail with two other teachers, and waved to them. "Is something wrong?" I said when Archie came puffing up to me.

"I need to talk to you alone," he said and gave me a quick smile that wasn't as reassuring as he intended it to be. We all went down the path again, and Archie told the class, "Boys, we need to cut art class short today. Go back with Mr. Douglas and Mr. Vincent. Don't complain," he said at their response. "You'll get to finish your projects in the dining room."

The boys gathered their mats and packed away their pencils, and went dejectedly back up the path, herded by the two other teachers. Both of them gave me sympathetic looks, which didn't tell me anything helpful.

Alan Davenport lingered at the back of the line. "Mr. Malcolm? Who'll carry the chair for you?"

"I will, Alan," Archie assured him. "Go on, now. Don't keep the rest of your class waiting." He watched until Alan was far up enough on the path that we could no longer see him, and then turned to me.

I'd never had a premonition in my life, but at that moment I knew exactly what had brought Archie out in the middle of the afternoon -- I didn't even need to look at the telegram he held out. I covered my eyes with my hand and began to sob.

Archie said, "Would you like me to read it to you?"

"Yes," I said, so Archie read the short sentences -- "Mother gone stop, funeral Saturday stop, love Dad stop" -- in his most gentle tone and then folded the telegram and put it away in his coat pocket.

"I'm so sorry, Malcolm," Archie said and directed me to the folding chair. I sat, one hand wrapped around my cane like it would never be removed, and hunted in my pockets for a handkerchief.

"Thank you," I said, and then gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "Seven pencils but not a handkerchief to be found."

"Here." Archie handed me his, and I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. He waited until I stopped honking and sniffling to say, "Was this sudden?"

"No," I said. "She's been ill for some time. Lung cancer."

"Oh, my God," Archie said.

"Yes." I inhaled, slow and shaky, and exhaled. "I just thought we'd have more time."

"We always hope we have more time," Archie said gently. He was a round little man who radiated kindness, which made him beloved by his students and admired by his staff. This softness was deceptive, however -- he was as reluctant as any other soldier to talk about the war, but I knew how the military had made use of his mathematical skills. "You'll want to go to California for the funeral, of course."

"I'll catch a train tonight." It was over a day's travel by train from Louisville to San Francisco, but there was enough time before the funeral for me to get there as well as my sister, Mary Kate, and her husband George to travel from Chicago.

"We'll have one of the gardeners drive you to the station," said Archie. "Send a telegram when you're ready to come back and someone will meet you."

I nodded. "Thank you." I scrubbed my hand through my hair, trying to think. "I should -- I should --"

"You should pack," Archie said. "I'll arrange for someone to cover your classes. Where are your lesson plans?"

"I'll bring you my planning book before I go." I looked toward the school with a sigh. So much to do, to prepare for ...

"Come on," Archie said, nodding toward the school, and once I was standing he folded the chair and held it under his arm for the walk back.

The windows of the dining room looked out into the gardens, and as we approached I could see the faces of my class pressed against the glass. The boys poked each other and whispered when we came into view, and Archie said, "I'll tell them what's happened and that you'll be away for a few days." He patted my shoulder. "Don't worry, Malcolm."

"Thank you, Archie," I said, and headed for the teachers' dormitory. Unmarried teachers were given small bedroom-cum-sitting rooms as their living quarters; they were plain but granted us a little privacy, always welcome after a day spent in a classroom.

I picked up the lone photo on my desk and sat on my bed. The photo was of my family before the war, the last time all six of us were together: my older brother Zachary, handsome and tall in 1941, dead on the Pacific Front in 1943; my sister Mary Kate, who would be widowed at Iwo Jima; me, before German bullets tore me up in the Battle of Hurtgen Forest; and Duncan, just a boy of thirteen when the picture was taken, the only one of us mostly untouched by the war. The photo included my parents, of course: my quiet father and my war-bride mother, after twenty-three years of marriage still holding hands like sweethearts. It was a boisterous photo, if photos can be described that way; we were happy that day, crowding together into the frame so that we all would fit, my parents indulgent and amused behind us. We had no idea what was in store for us, for the entire world.

I had to wipe my face again.

I packed mechanically -- a dark suit, a few days' worth of clothes -- and took my overcoat from the back of the closet. Spring in Kentucky was milder than it would be in San Francisco. The last time I had worn the overcoat had been the previous New Year's Eve, and the scent of the evening still lingered -- cigar smoke, expensive champagne, cold that never quite turned to snow.

I buried my face in the wool and inhaled. The scent filled me with longing, and longing filled me with resolve.

I put the coat down and went to the phone nook at the end of the hall. There was no one around -- afternoon classes were still in session -- and I felt confident no one would overhear as I dialed Oliver's office number.

"SJD Construction," Oliver's secretary, Isabel, said crisply. She was a graduate from Bowling Green, one of those incredibly intelligent women who would have been more than a secretary had she been a man. I liked her. I never said so, as she did not like me one bit. I doubted she knew the truth about Oliver and me, but something about our relationship -- too close and comfortable for teacher and parent -- triggered her disapproval.

"This is Mr. Carmichael from Goodwin Academy," I said, "calling for Oliver Davenport."

There was a pause, and then she said, "One moment, please," and put me on hold. As I waited I leaned my head on my hand and breathed in and out slowly, through my mouth, the way I did when I wanted to go back to sleep after a nightmare.

The line clicked back on. "Oliver Davenport. Is Frankie all right?"

"Frankie's fine," I said. "It's Malcolm. I called for me." I inhaled. "Oliver, my mother died."

"Oh," he said softly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

I thought he'd say more, but when he didn't I said, "You're not alone."

"That is correct."

"Damn it." I passed my hand over my face. "I'm leaving for the funeral tonight. I'll be gone a few days. Will you come with me to California? Please, Oliver. I need you."

"My schedule's full right now. I don't know if I could get away."

"Please," I whispered. "Tell Elizabeth it's a business trip. I'm taking the first train west that I can. I'll buy two tickets. Please, Oliver. Please come with me. I can't do this alone."

"I'll look into it." He paused as I tried not to start weeping again, and then he said gently, "Thank you for calling me. I'll get back to you soon."

"All right," I said and we hung up our phones.

I stayed in the phone nook for a few minutes more, my head buried in my hands, and then hauled myself to my feet and went back to my rooms to wash my face, and pick up my knapsack and garment bag.

Instead of one of the gardeners as I expected, when there was a soft tap at my door it was Henry Forrester, one of my fellow teachers. "Ready, Malcolm? I'll be driving you to the station."

"Don't you have classes this afternoon?"

He shrugged and picked up my luggage. "We're doing study hall today. Archie deemed it best, given the rearranging we'll have to do to cover your classes. It's fine," he added when I started to apologize. "No one minds."

We walked downstairs to the drive in front of the school, and I got into the town car as Henry put my luggage in the trunk.

I watched the countryside become the suburbs in silence as we drove into the city. Henry turned on the radio, and I closed my eyes as the strains of "We'll Meet Again" filled the car. He must have noticed, because he snapped the radio off again.

"I'm really very sorry about this, Malcolm," Henry said. "Your mother must have been a lovely woman."

"Thank you."

After a few more miles passed, he said, "We haven't talked much lately, you and I."

"I suppose not," I murmured.

"You've hardly talked to me at all since you met Mr. Davenport."

I opened my eyes and looked at him. His tone and expression were mild, but his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly enough that his knuckles were white. "Henry," I began.

He said, "What does he have that I don't? He's ancient--"

"He's fifty-two."

"He's _married_. He has _children_. We _teach_ his children."

I said slowly, "What I see in him is between him and me. You and I, we were never anything serious."

"I was serious about you."

"We slept together _once_." To be honest, I hadn't looked on our brief liaison as anything more meaningful than the furtive meetings I'd had with fellow soldiers during the war. That Henry thought of it as something worth keeping was news to me, especially since a year had passed since that night.

But, I realized as we drove in icy silence, perhaps I had noticed the longing looks, the way Henry took any opportunity he could to be alone with me or work alongside me, the way he let our hands brush. I had chosen to interpret it as familiarity, rather than a request for more.

"He'll never make you happy," Henry said at last. "He'd never endure the scandal of leaving wife number two for another man. Never."

"Is that why you offered to drive me? To tell me off?"

Henry sighed. "We needed to talk. Of course, you're not going to listen to me. You never listen to anyone."

Something of the Carmichael stubbornness made me want to protest that I did listen to people when they had something helpful to offer, but I just kept my mouth shut. Arguing with an ex-lover about the current one never ended well for either party.

Instead, I said, "Unless you're planning to expose us, I don't see how this is any of your business -- and if you're planning to expose us, I'd give it some serious thought. Oliver Davenport is a well-respected and powerful man in this community."

"I'm not planning to expose you," he said wearily. "I -- I suppose I -- I don't want you to go to your mother's funeral alone, and I know you are because you want Oliver to join you. He won't, of course."

"You don't know anything about it," I muttered.

"Stubborn." He paused. "I'm still fond of you. I still wish we could have made it work. I'd go with you in a heartbeat, if you ask me to."

Looking back on it now, I wonder what course my life would have followed if I did. Henry was a sweet boy, handsome, gentle -- it's possible we might have found happiness.

I didn't, of course. I wanted Oliver and no one else.

We arrived at the train station, and he took my luggage out of the trunk as I climbed from the auto. Henry watched me pull on the knapsack and pick up the garment back, and then said, as I started to climb the steps, "Malcolm. I -- I don't wish you ill. But you know he's only going to break your heart."

"It won't be the first time," I muttered in reply, and then concentrated on getting up the steps.

## ***

The first train that would get me to California wasn't leaving for another hour and half. I bought two tickets and a compartment, sent a telegram to tell my father when to expect my train, and sat near the platform to wait. I had a sketchbook with me, as always, but my usual method of passing the time was no good today -- I kept looking up to search the crowd for Oliver, and I knew that while all I wanted to draw was my mother's face, actually doing so would start a fresh bout of weeping. The looks the cane got me were bad enough. I didn't want to add "pathetic" on top of "cripple."

The platform grew steadily more crowded, with mothers trying to keep track of their children, single girls glamorous in their New Look suits and red lipstick, businessmen with newspapers folded under their arms. My heart leapt every time I saw a dark-haired man in a suit, and every time I was disappointed.

My train pulled into the station and many of its passengers disembarked. Porters and new passengers began to board, with more noise and calling back and forth. I picked up my own knapsack and garment bag, and a porter came over to help me -- a Negro fellow with scars on his face and neck that told me he was likely a veteran, too. "Can we wait five more minutes?" I said, and he looked at the train.

"It's cutting it awful close, sir."

I sighed. I knew that. I kept hoping if I just gave him a little more time -- but I had to face the truth.

Oliver wasn't coming.

I followed the porter on board to my compartment, and tipped him generously for being so patient. The compartment enabled me to stretch out more than an ordinary seat would have, and I did so once the porter had gone, the door shut firmly behind him. No dark-haired figure rushed through the waving crowd; no one came running down the corridor to throw open my door and apologize for being late, of course he would come with me to my mother's funeral.

I would have to do this one alone.

## ***

The train finally pulled into the San Francisco station early in the morning. I was one of the few to disembark, most of my fellow passengers having already reached their stops or changed trains for Los Angeles and other points south.

There were few people on the platform at that time of the morning, and I spotted Duncan at once. During the war, he had grown from a gangly thirteen-year-old to a solid young man of seventeen, and now at twenty-one he looked like he should be commuting to a steady job in a suit and porkpie hat rather than lingering on a train platform in dungarees and a leather jacket.

I said, "Duncan," and he answered, "Mal," and we hugged each other. He pulled back to look at me, his hand on my neck. "You look done in."

"I feel done in." I waited until the porter brought my things to ask, "How's Dad?"

Duncan shrugged, one-shouldered. "You know Dad. He's the strong one, no matter what." He took my luggage from the porter and waited while I tipped him, and then Duncan nodded his head in the direction of the parking lot. "Car's this way."

"And you?" I said as we walked. "How are you holding up?"

Duncan didn't answer for a minute or two. "It's weird," he said. "I saw her in the hospital the day before -- before it happened. She was fine. Cheerful, even. Said she loved me and would see me soon when I left. And then Dad went in that night and he said she exhaled and was gone."

I nodded. Death, in my experience, was usually a quiet thing, no matter how much noise and blood had preceded it.

Duncan opened the car door for me and I got in, and then he went to the trunk to put my luggage away. Dad had finally traded in his pre-war paneled jalopy for a '47 Ford sedan, and when Duncan turned the key the engine woke with a rumble. Duncan said as he steered out of the parking lot, "Uncle Greg and Uncle David have been with Dad since last night. One thing about the Carmichael clan, we can be counted on in bad times as well as good."

I smiled as I looked out the window at the sleeping city. My family -- my extended family -- was sprawling and ridiculous, and I loved them for exactly that. "I can't imagine getting through something like this alone."

"Yeah. The whole neighborhood has brought flowers or casseroles." He paused. "The only thing that's upset him is when someone says Mom's in a better place."

I winced. "After thirty-three years of them not going to church, our neighbors should know better."

"I think when it comes to death, nobody knows what to say and so they fall back on cliches."

I looked at Duncan, who was watching the road. "When did you get to be so wise?"

He smiled at me. "I'm not a kid in short pants anymore, Mal."

I laughed and looked out the window again.

Our house, the one I had grown up in and where my father and mother still lived -- just my father now, I thought with a pang -- was a narrow, tall place in the Potrero Hill neighborhood. Not one of the famous Victorian painted ladies that most people associate with San Francisco, the house was more earthy -- shades of brown and cream, porches and window-frames free of ornamental gingerbread, far more Craftsman than Victorian, as it had been built after the great quake of '06. Its plainness had always suited my parents just fine; the inside of the house was just as simple, our furniture Shaker or Mission style, our pictures and decorations few. Instead of knickknacks we filled the shelves with books; instead of a radio we had a piano; our art was hand-drawn pictures, family photos, framed labels of the family whiskey.

Duncan parked in the garage at the back of the house -- it had been a carriage-house when first built -- and got my luggage from the trunk as I climbed out of the sedan. As we went through the garden to the back door that opened to a sun porch, I asked Duncan, "What about Matilda? Is she coming?"

"I called her," Duncan said. "She's coming."

"Good," I said. Matilda and Zachary had been high school sweethearts, and married as soon as he enlisted. My niece Zoe was the result, a blond and blue-eyed girl who only knew her daddy from pictures. I hadn't seen either of them since Zachary's body was shipped home from the Pacific in 1949. "I'm looking forward to seeing them again."

"She doesn't visit often," Duncan said. "I suppose I can't blame her."

I paused on the porch. I could see the kitchen through the window that opened onto the sun room, and people moving about as they poured coffee or served themselves from pans on the stove or plates on the counter. Uncle Greg, Aunt Rhoda, various cousins -- no one I didn't expect.

It was a relief.

Duncan paused too, his hand on the doorknob. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said, and hoped it would last.

We went inside, and Duncan called, "Malcolm's here!" In a moment I was enveloped in the arms of various relatives, with kisses on my cheek and many concerned queries about my state of being. Duncan took my luggage upstairs as the Carmichael clan bore me to the dining room table and someone set a plate full of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of me. Dad sat at the other end of the table with a similarly loaded plate and a bemused expression, and we smiled at each other ruefully. Talk would have to come later, when the relatives had retreated.

## ***

Eventually Dad convinced the relatives to let me sleep a while, since I'd been stuck on a train all night. I retreated to my old room and stretched out on what had been my bed from the time I was four until I left home. Zachary and I had shared this room until he left for college, and it still bore the stamp of two growing boys: outgrown clothes in the wardrobe, adventure novels on the bookshelves, and I was fairly certain if I worked up a certain loose board there would still be some French postcards and jazz cigarettes in our little hiding place. It was in this room that I confessed to Zachary that I didn't want to marry a girl; it was in this room that I announced my intention to enlist; it was in this room that Zachary made the decision to marry Matilda before he shipped out. We had whispered secrets to each other from one twin bed to the other for years.

Looking at the empty bed now made my throat ache.

Still, I almost expected Zachary to be on that other bed, smiling at me in his fond, indulgent way, ready to say, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Mal." He had comforted me through the first, worst grief of my young life, but Zachary was also the one to talk sense into me, to remind me that life was worth living even when I had lost my first love.

I searched for a pocket-handkerchief and came up with two pencils and a paper cocktail napkin, and used that to wipe my face. Coming home would always be this way, it seemed -- one reminder after another of all that I had lost.

Eventually I slept, and was awakened by rapid footsteps on the staircase before a brisk tap on the door. "Mal!" Mary Kate said and bounced into the room, her five-month-old daughter Rosemary on her hip.

"Mary Kate," I answered as I sat up and held out my arms for Rosemary, who came into them willingly. Mary Kate kissed my cheek and sat cross-legged with me on the bed. "Where's George?"

"Bringing up the suitcases. There is so much paraphernalia necessary for traveling with an infant, Mal, so much more than you'd think for something so small."

I held Rosemary up so that her feet rested on my thighs, and she made jumping movements and waved her hands. She was so much more lively than the first time I'd seen her, when she was just a few weeks old and hadn't done much aside from sleep and eat and occasionally blink in confusion. Mary Kate leaned her head on my shoulder and smiled when Rosemary squealed.

"I see you, my baby," Mary Kate said to her fondly, and asked me, "How are you doing?"

"It doesn't seem real yet," I said. "You?"

"The same. I suppose having Aunt Rhoda in the kitchen instead of Mom is definitive proof." She stroked Rosemary's head, covered with soft dark hair -- she took after George in her coloring, with curly brown hair and big green eyes. She would probably have the Carmichael height, I thought, as she was a long, slender baby rather than the role-poly kind. "At least she got to meet this little one. I'm glad about that."

"Me, too," I said quietly.

Mary Kate had left the door ajar, and George peeked in before joining us, first stooping to give his daughter and wife a kiss, and then he shook my hand. "Good to see you, Malcolm."

"You too, George," I said. Rosemary leaned out of my arms for her daddy, and George took her and gave her a few more kisses.

He sat on the other bed with the baby on his knee. "How long are you planning to stay in San Francisco?"

"Not long," I said. "Goodwin gave me as long as I need, but I don't think I'll take more than a few days. What about you?"

"I have a week off from the paper," George said. "It depends on what Arthur needs, really."

"Of course, Duncan will be here," Mary Kate said.

"They'll basically be two bachelors fumbling around," said George.

Mary Kate gave him a patient look. "Don't underestimate him. My brothers were taught how to cook and do laundry just like I was taught how to change a tire and build a campfire."

"It's true," I remarked. "She makes excellent cowboy coffee."

They smiled at each other like they shared a secret -- which, I realized, they must, after four years of marriage. It was an odd feeling, knowing that my sister no longer told me everything -- a little bit of loss, a little bit of envy. What must it be like, I thought, to know someone so well you could have a conversation in complete silence?

I picked up my cane. "I think I'll go for a walk."

"Are you sure you're up to it?" Mary Kate asked, all motherly concern.

"I'll be fine." I picked up my jacket, too, and pulled it on.

Mary Kate pressed, "Are you planning to visit anyone?"

I smiled at her humorlessly. "Who's left?" I said and left the house, glad that none of my relatives tried to stop me for a chat. The house was quieter now anyway, everyone having gone back to their regular lives for the day.

Downhill was easiest to walk, so downhill I went, trying not to look too closely at the houses of my friends who hadn't come home from the war. The last thing I wanted to see were gray faces peering at me from between the curtains.

At the corner of the block was the Hoffman place, a house I hadn't been inside since before the war. I paused, gazing at it from across the street. It was a modest little house, like most of our neighborhood, with a white picket fence and green shutters. The Hoffmans' only son, Daniel, had been my best friend when we were children, and we had done everything together. We had played marbles on the front walk, built a treehouse in the back yard, patched up our skinned knees, taught each other to kiss.

Mr. Hoffman was in the front yard, weeding the victory garden. He sat back on his heels as I stopped at the front gate. "Malcolm," he said with a nod.

"Hello, Mr. Hoffman," I said.

"I'm very sorry to hear about your mother," he said as he got to his feet. "She was a good woman. Very kind."

"Thank you," I said, and then behind Mr. Hoffman the front door opened and Mrs. Hoffman came onto the porch.

"Malcolm," she said warmly. She came down the front walk and opened the gate in their little picket fence. "So good to see you."

"Hello, Mrs. Hoffman," I said and bent to kiss her cheek.

"Won't you come in, dear? The walk from your house must be tiring for you now."

I glanced at the house, and then smiled at Mrs. Hoffman and said, "I'd love to. Thank you."

She held my arm as we climbed the steps. The house was much as I remembered it, austere and tidy. There was a framed photograph of Daniel, taken on the day we graduated from high school, on top of the upright piano. The frame had a black ribbon across one corner.

"There's fresh coffee," Mrs. Hoffman said.

"Thank you," I replied. "May I?" I gestured to the photograph, and she smiled, sad and small.

"Of course you may, dear." She bustled to the kitchen as I went to the piano and picked up the frame. I had no pictures of Daniel of my own but his face had never grown faint in my memory -- I knew every line, every freckle, the width of his eyes and the fullness of his mouth, as if we had seen each other yesterday.

I glanced up -- and then nearly dropped the frame, for there in the wing chair sat Daniel, grey-faced with shadows under his eyes, wearing the sweater and trousers he had been found in, his shirt collar not quite high enough to hide the rope burns around his neck.

I squeezed my eyes shut and told myself, _Not real, not real,_ until I heard Mrs. Hoffman's returning footsteps from the kitchen.

"Are you all right, dear?" she said and I managed to find a friendly expression if not a genuine smile.

"I -- I miss him very much." I perched on the sofa with my cane beside me, and took the coffee cup she handed me. She sat in the armchair where I had seen Daniel just moments before and dropped a sugar cube into her cup.

"I understand you're teaching in Kentucky now."

"Yes, that's right." I had a sip. It was European-style coffee, strong and acrid. "It's an all-boys school called Goodwin Academy."

"You must be very good with your students," Mrs. Hoffman said and looked down at her coffee cup. "You were always so patient with Daniel, and with the younger boys."

I said softly, "Thank you. I enjoy it very much."

"I loved watching the two of you play. I think he wanted to be a teacher too, because of you." Her eyes met mine, and then she looked down at the cup again. "As much as I would have liked to see him teach, I'm glad he missed the war. We're not all cut out to be soldiers."

"That's true, ma'am," I murmured and had another sip of coffee.

"I suppose coming home is the best anyone could hope for." Her gaze fell on my cane, and I knew the words she couldn't say -- she would trade any amount of mobility for the chance to have her son again.

Behind her Daniel gazed down at her, his face full of sorrow, and he lay his hand on her shoulder. She trembled as if she felt him, or felt at least felt the chill in the air that the dead bring.

I put my cup on the little tea-table between us and got to my feet. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hoffman, I shouldn't have come."

"Malcolm," she said, standing too. "Please -- I've never had a chance to ask you -- please -- before he -- did he ever tell you anything, let a hint drop, about _why_?"

I looked down at her, my eyes stinging, and couldn't say the real reason even though I knew it: because he loved me, and he knew his parents would never accept it.

I said hoarsely, "No. I'm sorry," and left the house as quickly as I could.

Daniel, I was grateful to see, did not follow.


	2. Zachary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> "Mother gone stop, funeral Saturday stop, love Dad stop"

Marie-Laure Carmichael was buried on a cold and foggy morning, in the space between Zachary's grave and the empty plot reserved for my father. The funeral was well-attended, not just by the Carmichael clan but by neighbors, former students, and women from her various committees and clubs that had been trying to save the world since the Great War.

Rather than a priest, which my mother would never have tolerated, my uncle David gave the graveside service. He spoke about how she had left her familiar world behind to marry this American doughboy; how they had dedicated their lives to teaching children often forgotten by the mainstream school system, children of immigrants, children who didn't speak English beyond a few words, children who had to rise at dawn just to walk to the nearest school where they usually weren't welcome anyway. He spoke about her devotion to her children, how each of us had gone to college because there was never any doubt we would; how when war was declared she told her sons to follow our conscience and do what we thought was right.

I had joined the army with stars and stripes in my eyes, determined to defend the free world from the Nazi threat. Zachary had joined as a conscientious objector; the military made him a medic, and he spent the war with a Red Cross insignia on his arm.

I expected to give my life. That's what soldiers do. Zachary, though -- Zachary, with his new wife and little daughter, was supposed to live.

The four off us -- Dad, Duncan, Mary Kate, and me -- sat in the front row of mourners. My father barely moved, only smiled sometimes when David spoke of a particularly good memory, and as I looked at him I wished I could say something to make this better. But how can you help someone to stop missing the love of their life? 

Between us sat Mary Kate, and we held each other's hands until Rosemary's chant of, "Ma, ma, ma," grew more insistent and Mary Kate rose to take the baby from George.

I moved into the empty seat beside my father and patted his back. He glanced at me, and then put his hand on top of mine, which was enough to make my eyes well and my throat close. 

The cemetery was more peaceful than I expected it to be. A few decades before, many of the cemeteries within the San Francisco city limits were moved to nearby Colma, where the land was plentiful and the people few; in the manner of many such undertakings, less care was taken with the remains than should have been. On the drive from the city, I had worried that I would see the dead everywhere I looked, but today, whatever restless spirits might be attached to this place kept to themselves.

After the funeral, we had a wake at my aunt Rhoda and uncle David's house, which was just down the hill from Mom and Dad's. On such occasions before the war I wandered through the guests and never stayed in any one place for long, but my leg prevented that now. I parked myself near my father and accepted all the sympathy my mother's friends and neighbors felt the need to express as graciously as I could.

One advantage of this spot was that I could see the way the stream of guests ebbed and flowed. George and Mary Kate escaped to Dad's house as soon as they could, which was no surprise given the baby. The women from Mom's committees stuck together, ignoring the curious looks from more traditional ladies, and they, I was glad to say, knew better than to say anything about God needing Marie-Laure and calling her home. When he did receive those platitudes, Dad only cut a glance at me to express his exasperation. 

I lost track of Duncan early on and figured he must have gone back to the house with Mary Kate, but toward the end of the evening I saw him going into the kitchen, a girl his age leading him by the hand. I had seen her among the many relatives and visitors over the last few days, and figured she must be a cousin or neighbor's child who had grown up so much I didn't recognize her. I didn't ask, having other things on my mind, but now I leaned close to Dad and said, "Who's that girl with Duncan?"

"That's Phoebe," he said, and looked surprised when I didn't react. "Hasn't he told you about her? Phoebe Hillman. They're sweethearts. I expect he'll propose as soon as he's graduated."

"No, he didn't tell me about her," I said and wondered why. Granted, with nine years between us Duncan and I had never been close, but even so I would have thought he would tell me he was thinking of getting married. Zachary had -- but of course, Zachary and I had been nearly inseparable for most of our lives. My childhood was almost over by the time Duncan could do more than toddle.

I had no one, I realized, to whom I was the first person to tell secrets. Mary Kate and George would comfort each other tonight, and it was likely that Duncan and his Phoebe would be closer than ever after today; even my father had his brothers and sisters around him to share stories and help him deal with his grief; but I had no one. My friends were dead or had left the city; I wasn't particularly close to any of my cousins; and my lover, of course, was at home with his wife in Louisville.

I passed my hand over my face, told my father, "I need some air," and went onto the back porch. The sun was setting, orange and pink light peeping beneath the layer of clouds. As always, the air smelled of the sea, and I could hear the sounds of a springtime Saturday night all around the neighborhood, kids being called into supper and radios playing as men worked on their cars. 

It was beautiful, my city, and full of ghosts.

"Mal?" Duncan said as he came onto the porch too. "Dad wanted me to see if you need a drive home."

"I can walk."

"Okay." He lingered. "Dad is walking too. I think I might take a detour."

"You can say you're going to spoon with your sweetheart," I said.

"I don't know if you'd call it that," he said. 

"You know what I mean. And why didn't you tell me about this girl, anyway?"

"You didn't ask," Duncan replied with a shrug. "You've never been too interested in what's going on in my life, even less so since the war."

"I'm interested now," I said, and he laughed shortly.

"Maybe later. I want to take her home. Are you sure you want to walk?"

"It's not far." I looked at him -- he was tall and blond and freckled like Zachary and me, and had grown up so much while I was trying to keep myself together in Kentucky. I had to adjust my mental picture of my little brother, I realized -- he wasn't a gangly boy anymore, but this handsome young man, ready to make his own way in the world.

I patted his shoulder. "Go on. Spend time with your girl."

"Good night, Mal," he said and went back into the house. 

After a few more deep breaths, I went inside too. The crowd was thinning now, our acquaintances having gone home, leaving just family and close friends behind. I hadn't seen Matilda, Zachary's widow, anywhere -- but as I came back to the sitting room I saw her in the wing chair beside my father.

She rose when she saw me. "Malcolm," she said warmly and kissed my cheek. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you."

"Do you want your chair back?"

I waved her to it. "Go on, I can use an ottoman." I pulled one over and lowered myself onto it carefully, my bad leg jutting out. "Where's Zoe?"

"With my mother. I decided not to bring her."

"Oh," I said and hoped I didn't sound to disappointed.

"Tell Malcolm your news, Mattie," Dad said, and Matilda blushed.

She said to me, "I'm getting married."

There was a stuttering in my chest -- an instinctive, _No, you're my brother's wife, you're not meant to be anyone else's._ I managed to find a smile and give my not-entirely convincing congratulations. "Oh! Oh -- oh, that's -- great. Best wishes."

"Thank you." She was still blushing, and she looked at my father before she said, "His name is Gene Rowland. He was stationed in the Presidio during the war and used to come to the diner nearly every day." Matilda's parents owned a diner on 24th Street, where Matilda had worked since she was big enough to take customer orders. We had wiled away many hours there as boys, making our nickels stretch as far as they could.

"And he came back to the city for you?" I said, because that's how these stories usually went.

Matilda nodded and smiled to herself. "He waited for me to be ready."

A man like that, I thought, might be a decent replacement for my brother. I took her hand. "I'm happy for you, honey."

She leaned over and kissed my cheek again, and patted the other with her vanilla-scented hand. "Thank you, Malcolm. Should I send you an invitation to the wedding?"

"An announcement, at least," I said.

She squeezed my hand. "I will." She paused. "I sometimes think, if things were different, he and Zachary might have been friends."

I looked away, my throat closing for umpteenth time that day. I can't pretend that the love between husband and wife and the love between brothers is anything alike, but I often felt Matilda was one of the few people who understood how much I missed him. I said, when I felt I could speak, "If Zachary would have liked him, he must be a decent fellow."

Dad glanced between us, and said, "I think it's time to head home. I'm planning to walk, but I can get someone to drive us if you need it, Malcolm."

"I can manage the walk." I kissed Matilda one more time, and received several hugs and kisses from the rest of the relatives, but eventually we left Aunt Rhoda's for the walk home.

Dad said, "They mean well."

"I know." We walked in silence for a while. "So many changes going on -- Duncan's getting married, Matilda's getting re-married, Mary Kate's a mother now..."

"You're making your way in the world," Dad said in a tone similar to mine. "You've found a good position at a good school. Your mother was so proud of you."

I nodded, and wondered when mentions of my mother would stop making me want to weep. "Why didn't anyone tell me how bad Mom was?"

"She didn't want to worry you," Dad replied. "Or Mary Kate. If Duncan didn't live with us, she would have kept it from him, too." He inhaled slowly. "I think she would have preferred to have kept it even from me."

"She would have hidden _lung cancer_."

"You know your mother. She didn't like being the center of attention, even when she needed it."

"We could have come out before the end," I said. "We could have said goodbye."

"That last visit with your sister wore her out," Dad said. "As much as she loved meeting her granddaughter, it was more than she could handle. She came home and basically slept for the next week."

I sighed and scrubbed my hand through my hair. Rehashing my mother's choices was pointless now, I realized, and only hurt my father more. I said, "The school superintendent gave me leave to take as much time as I need, so I can stay as long as you need me to."

"Thank you, Malcolm."

After a moment or two more, I voiced the thought I'd been toying with since I left Kentucky. "I don't think I'm going to stay at Goodwin after the end of this term. I need a change of scenery."

"I see." We walked along, Dad's hands in his pockets, my hand in the crook of his elbow. "Do you think you'll come back to the city?"

"I don't know," I said.

The ocean is never far away in San Francisco, and the strong scent of salt catapulted me back to my childhood -- our little gang running through the streets, playing Kick the Can and Tag, saving our nickels to buy ice cream or go to the pictures, wading in the ocean with our trousers rolled up to our knees. A good half of the boys I had grown up with were gone now, killed in Europe or the Pacific, or they had just never come home. 

We were nearing the house -- slowly, thanks to the cane -- and I supposed it would be much quieter now that all the relatives were at their own homes or at Aunt Rhoda's, and Duncan was out for a few more hours.

Dad made as if to speak a few times before he said, "Malcolm, I hate the thought of you leaving a job you love just because of a failed romance."

I looked at him, surprised. When Daniel died and my grief made me confess everything to my parents, my mother had taken my face in her hands and kissed me, and told me I should love as freely and fully as my brothers and sister, but Dad had said nothing and left the room. It was months before he was natural with me again.

"What makes you think I want to leave because of a failed romance?"

He said slowly, "You came here alone. If you had a sweetheart, he would have come with you."

I frowned at the sidewalk. He was right. He usually was.

Dad said, "I suppose it's to do with that man you mention in your letters. Mr. Davenport."

"He didn't lead me astray, if that's what you're thinking. That happened a long time ago."

"Yes, I remember," he said quietly, and we both looked in the directions of the Hoffmans' house. 

I said, quiet too, "Daniel didn't lead me astray, either. I just am what I am."

"I understand that, Malcolm. I do. I just want to see you happy, the same as any parent does for their child. I only fear you won't find happiness with another woman's husband."

"I know I won't," I murmured. I had to stop walking and cover my face with my hand. Dad made a distressed sound and patted my back, and I managed to choke out, "I asked him to come with me. I told him I needed him and couldn't get through this without him. He didn't come. I don't know what to do, Daddy."

He continued patting my back. "I think you do, Malcolm. In your heart, you do." He nodded to the house, just a little further up the hill. "Come on. I think we both could use some warm milk."

I laughed despite myself, and when I had control again I held his arm as we finished the walk home. If there was one thing my family could be counted on, it was warm milk in times of trouble.

* * *

Still, as I lay in my bed that night, sleep was elusive. It hadn't been easy since the war but some nights were even worse, and this appeared to be one of them. 

I sighed and turned from my side to my back. I had only closed the curtain part-way, and in the moonlight, I could see that the other twin bed was empty -- Duncan wasn't home yet. The house was silent, and I supposed even Rosemary was sound asleep tonight.

I started to reach for my sketchbook -- insomnia made me creative -- when I noticed there were goosebumps on my arms. I exhaled, and my breath froze in a plume of vapor. My arm paused, and I inhaled and exhaled again, hoping it was just chilly San Francisco weather causing this reaction rather than --

My bedsprings rattled as Zachary shook my mattress the way he had when we were boys and he'd decided I'd slept too long. "Get up, Mal! Fire!"

I swallowed with a dry throat and croaked out, "You're not real. You're not real!"

"Get up! Fire! He needs you!"

I shoved myself upright, shaking, covered in goosebumps and cold sweat. He knelt over me, wearing the uniform he had died in, his face grey, dark shadows under his eyes. From the front I couldn't see the bullet holes.

"You're not real," I repeated, though with less conviction than the first time. Even though I could see the other twin bed through his body, he still looked real enough that if I reached out and touched him, I might feel fabric and skin. "Please don't haunt me, Zack," I said instead. "Please."

"You're not done yet," was Zachary's response -- and then he was gone. Only the green, heavy scent of a tropical jungle remained, and in a moment that, too, faded away.

I inhaled and exhaled carefully, and then I grabbed my cane and pulled on a dressing gown. I went through the house from the first floor to the attic -- no basements in these post-Great Quake houses -- sniffing for smoke.

The stove was gas so there was no fire to put out there, and there was no bitter scent in the air of the kitchen. The fireplace in the sitting room hadn't been lit for days, the ashes in the hearth cold. No other room had an unusual scent, a whiff of tobacco smoke, or even the flicker of a candle.

My investigation through, I sat heavily in one of the chairs at the kitchen table. My body ached with its usual pain and now fatigue as well. I scrubbed my hands through my hair and thought wildly that maybe I was going mad, other G.I.s did even if they got home safely --

The kitchen light flicked on, and Mary Kate stood in the doorway, Rosemary on her hip. "Why are you doing up, Mal?"

I didn't want to worry her, so I said, "I'm always awake this early."

"Sure you are." She went to the refrigerator. Rosemary hung onto Mary Kate's flannel bathrobe and goggled at me as Mary Kate got out a bottle of milk. "Want some warm milk?"

"You can't sleep either, huh?" I said.

"There's too much on my mind." She hunted in the cupboard for a pan, one-handed. "And of course, this little bean doesn't like to sleep in strange places, either."

"I'll take her, if she'll let me," I said, holding out my arms, so Mary Kate handed Rosemary to me. Rosemary regarded me suspiciously, so I turned her so she could see Mary Kate. "There's Mama. Nothing to worry about."

That seemed to be enough to satisfy her, and Rosemary relaxed against my chest. 

I watched Mary Kate start heating the milk, and said, "Do you ever dream about Zachary?"

"Yes," Mary Kate said simply. "A couple days ago, in fact, I dreamed that I wanted to show him something and couldn't find it no matter where I looked, and he kept telling me it was okay, not to worry about it, but I was still searching for it when the dream ended."

"What did you want to show him?" I put my fingers in Rosemary's hands for her to gnaw on.

"I don't know. You know how it is in dreams -- you just know something even though you don't really know it." She paused, slowly stirring the milk in the pan. "It was probably Rosemary."

"You're probably right," I murmured and rested my lips against her dark hair.

"We were thinking, if she'd been a boy, we'd name her Zachary."

"I bet he would have liked that. Why didn't you name her something like Zelda?"

"Poetry," Mary Kate said. "Rosemary for remembrance."

"I like it," I said, and Rosemary twisted back her head to look up at me. I kissed her forehead, hot and smooth in the manner of babies. "But in your dreams, does Zachary ever ... warn you about things?"

"Warn me?" Mary Kate said. "No, I can't say that he does. Why?"

"He does me," I said quietly. 

Mary Kate furrowed her brow.

 _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ I thought. "I'm... not always sure they're dreams. That's what got me up tonight, in fact. He told me there was a fire and 'he' needed me, but I looked through almost every room and there's no smoke or flame."

"Zachary didn't die in a fire," Mary Kate said, still frowning.

"I know. I don't think Zachary was the 'he.' I don't know who he could have meant."

Mary Kate frowned at me a moment more, then turned back to the pan and took it off the flame. She poured the milk into two mugs and brought one to me, and sat, cross-legged, in the chair beside me. In her pajamas with her hair pulled back, she looked like a young girl again, not a war widow and young mother. She tickled Rosemary's cheek and the baby squirmed, giggling. 

Mary Kate said, "You're seeing Zachary's ghost, is what you're saying."

"I suppose I am." I wrapped an arm around Rosemary to keep her upright as I picked up my mug.

"The two of you always were close." She held the mug between her hands. "If he were to haunt anyone, it would be you."

"I don't find that especially comforting."

"When you woke up in the V. A. hospital you asked for him. Do you remember?"

"No," I said. "My earliest memory of the V.A. hospital is Mom reading to me."

"That was a day or so later." She sipped her milk. Rosemary sucked her fingers and kicked her feet, and Mary Kate smiled at her, then looked up at me, her expression serious. "They told us not to expect much from you at first. Apparently it takes coma patients a long time to fully come out of it."

I nodded. I knew this story -- and it was a story to me, because all that I remembered were flashes of being operated on, probably while I was still in Germany, and then waking up in an army hospital in Virginia, to my mother's voice as she read to me in French. The journey from Europe was a complete blank. I had been told I was taken first to a hospital in England, and then sent home on the first troop ship they could put me on to get me back to the States. The Army thought they were sending me home to die, and my family thought they might have enough time to say goodbye.

Instead, I woke up from the coma, and within a week was asking for drawing paper and a pencil. Those first drawings were crude and messy, like a child's, but I kept at it whenever my eyes stayed open long enough. By the time I moved to a hospital in California I was able to give my nurses and doctors caricatures of themselves as thank-you gifts. 

It took months to learn to walk again, and I would drift between English and French when I was speaking without realizing it for at least a year more, but I often thought if I hadn't been able to draw I never have gotten back to my current level of normality.

"Carmichael stubbornness," I said to Mary Kate. "We're hard to kill."

"And it may be that same stubbornness that makes you think you're seeing Zachary," she said gently. "You're having a hard time letting him go."

I sipped my milk and patted Rosemary's round little belly. I could have accepted that rationale if it had only been _seeing_ Zachary, and if it were only Zachary that I saw. But he spoke to me, touched me -- and there were other ghosts, other ashen faces that I saw peering out of windows or even passing in the street. The dead were everywhere and they seemed to seek me out like I was a beacon in the dark. 

Mary Kate was watching me closely, so I smiled at her and said, "You must be right."

"It'll get easier with time," she said. "I still call George 'Owen' sometimes, and we didn't even live together very long."

I pressed my nose to Rosemary's hair. She smelled of baby powder and milk and clean cotton, a scent I had never found particularly comforting until my nieces came into my life. I said, "Do you miss him? Owen?"

"Of course I do," Mary Kate said, "but I sometimes I wonder if we'd still be together if he'd survived. So many of my girlfriends married their soldier boys and then the marriages ended during the war or soon after. I might have ended up with George anyway. After all, we met because of you."

"True," I said. During the war I had drawn some cartoons for the _Stars and Stripes_ ; George had been my editor, and when we were home George contacted me to ask if he could visit, as he'd never seen the Pacific Ocean. He stayed with us for a week; by the second night, he and Mary Kate were spending so much time together that Mom invited him to stay another week. He couldn't, but for the next six month he and Mary Kate wrote each other almost daily, and after a year they were engaged.

"And without George, I wouldn't have Rosie, and what would my life be without her? Hm?" Mary Kate bent close to Rosemary and laughed as Rosemary grasped her face. "Hello, my baby," she said tenderly and kissed Rosemary until the baby chortled.

I said, "So you think love is fated," and she glanced up at me again.

"Not at all. I think love happens because your heart is open to it." She tipped her head. "What's wrong?"

I rested my lips on Rosemary's head again as I debated how to answer. As accepting as I knew she was, I hadn't told Mary Kate about Oliver.

"I think I've fallen out of love with someone," I said. "He's only ever going to disappoint me. I think it's time I accept that. I think I'm going to end it when I get back to Louisville."

"Oh, Mal. I'm sorry."

I only nodded. Dad was right about one thing, anyway -- in my heart, I knew what to do. It felt like a relief to say it out loud.

I said, "I'll take care of the washing-up if you need to get Rosie to bed."

"Thank you." She stood, holding the baby in her arms, and then paused. "I know it seems hard now, but you're a good man, Mal. You do the right thing more often than you don't." 

"Thank you," I said. "Good night." She stooped so I could kiss them both, and left the kitchen. After a moment or two of running my hand through my hair I picked up the mugs and took them to the sink, and washed them and the pan.

The sun would be up in just an hour or so. I decided to stay awake to watch it rise.


	3. Oliver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> “I asked him to come with me. I told him I needed him and couldn’t get through this without him. He didn’t come. I don’t know what to do, Daddy.”

On Sunday night, I hugged my family and boarded the train back to Louisville. Mary Kate and George planned to stay a few more days, and of course Duncan would be there until he and Phoebe got a place of their own, so I wasn't too worried about Dad being on his own.

Zachary had not made another appearance. I knew I should find that a relief -- in the daylight hours, I felt far less like I was going mad -- but I still found myself wishing that he would, maybe to explain to me what he'd meant by warning me of fire and some mysterious "him" needing me. 

I was selfish enough to wish he meant Oliver. I didn't wish his wife ill except when I did; and on the train ride home I imagined their house burning down, Oliver tragically widowed, and once I had comforted him through his grief he would finally be brave enough to bring me home and tell his children I would be their second father. 

He wouldn't, of course. Oliver Davenport's first marriage had ended due to his infidelities with the current Mrs. Davenport, and that was as scandalous as he would admit to being. That he had other affairs was common knowledge in Louisville society; that some of them were with men was not. 

I had met Oliver Davenport two years previously, at a parent-teacher function at Goodwin Academy. Alan and the next oldest boy, Jason, were the students at that time; his two older sons had already aged out of the school. Oliver had been everything I wanted in a lover then: handsome, charming, and not looking for anything permanent. At the time I thought he would be nothing more than an amusing pastime while I got on with my life, but as the months passed and we continued to see each other, I came to think of him more and more as someone meaningful. Maybe even someone I could love.

No matter what Henry Forrester thought, I had not had a regular lover since coming home from the war. Before, I had never sought one out -- I rarely even gave my name to the men I fucked -- and during, of course, most of us were too preoccupied with staying alive to think about sex.

So many G.I.s started families as soon as they came home, perhaps to prove that they had survived horrific circumstances and could go back to their normal lives -- as if life would ever be normal again. I didn't join them, and while I knew my family accepted me as I was I also knew they wished I could find something stable to help me put the war behind me.

Instead, I avoided it assiduously, keeping my liaisons to one night or to men who would never be available to me otherwise. The war had changed me -- as surely as Daniel's death had changed me -- and I didn't want to make anyone any promises. And I certainly wanted none made to me.

I didn't want that anymore.

I thought about this, about Duncan and his Phoebe, and Mary Kate and George, during the long train journey back to Kentucky. I could, I supposed, find a woman who might be willing to be my wife, like many other homosexual men before me; but I didn't want that, either. I didn't want to pretend. There was enough of that in my life. I wanted a home, a place where I could always be me, where I could laugh without restraint and cry when I needed to and love with everything in me.

Somewhere, I thought, there had to be a man who would want all of that for me and with me; there had to be some corner of the world where we could make that life together and without fear.

***

When the train pulled into the station in Louisville and I spotted the car from Goodwin, I was glad to see the driver was the school's groundskeeper rather than Henry Forrester again. He drove me back to the school with no chatter, for which I was thankful, and I left a note in Archie's mailbox to let him know I had returned, before going up to my rooms to recover from the journey. 

I resumed my usual schedule the next day, and life, as it is prone to do, resumed as normal. I taught French and art, worked on my own pictures, and resolved not to send a message to Oliver. We were done, I told myself sternly. We were _through_. He had let me down when I needed him most and I would not give him another chance.

My grief felt raw. I missed my mother. I found myself dwelling on the little things that I remembered at the strangest moments; the way she sang old French songs in the mornings as she prepared breakfast, the acrid scent of her cigarettes, her hand guiding mine as I re-learned to draw and write, her cool hand on my forehead as she got me through childhood fevers and post-war injuries, her smile when she placed a mug of hot milk in front of me when I woke from sleepwalking when I was very young or from nightmares when I was older.

I missed all of my dead as if they were lost afresh. And I missed Oliver, and grieved the loss of him even though I knew leaving him was the best thing I could do.

Still, my heart skipped a beat when I received a letter from him the Friday after I returned from California. The message was simple: "Meet me at our usual place Saturday night. I miss you. - O."

Our usual place was a staid and discreet hotel in downtown Louisville, the kind of place that would hide the secrets of a man like Oliver Davenport. No pay-by-the-hour house of assignation for him, of course; but also not one of the finest hotels, either, where he might run into acquaintances or friends of his wife. In the beginning of our affair, I had been flattered he would spend that kind of money for just a few hours alone with me. Now I knew it was just another way for him to hide his shame.

All day Saturday, I changed my mind about whether I would go on an hourly basis. I didn't want to see him again -- I shouldn't go. I wanted to tell him exactly what I thought of him -- I should go. I would only sleep with him again if I saw him -- I shouldn't go. One more time wouldn't hurt, would it? -- I should go. On and on, until finally I took one of the little cars meant for faculty use and drove into the city.

Parked in the hotel lot, I sat in the car and watched the lights turn off and on in the various rooms, until I saw the light in our usual room was on and had been on since I arrived. I went up and knocked on the door, and Oliver opened it, a relieved look on his face the moment he saw it was me. 

"I was afraid you weren't coming," he said and pulled me inside. 

"I couldn't stay away," I answered, and then we didn't talk for a while. 

***

I woke with a start. It took a few breaths before I remembered where I was: hotel, with Oliver, who slept beside me, unaware of the sudden cold. I could see my breath when I exhaled, and goosebumps covered my skin.

A little girl stood beside the bed. Her dark hair was in ringlets, and she wore the type of short, puffy-skirted dress that had been common on children sixty years ago. Her skin was ashen and there were dark circles under her large, deep-set eyes. There was a dark stain on the side of her head, as if she had been hit or fallen with great force.

We stared at each other.

I closed my eyes but didn't bother with the chant of, "Not real, not real," since it never helped anyway -- and opened them again when Oliver mumbled in his sleep and laid an arm over me so he could tug me closer. 

The little girl disappeared at the movement, and I let Oliver hold onto me until my heart stopped pounding and my breathing returned to normal. I slipped out of his embrace and went to the little bathroom, ran some cold water and splashed it on my face. When I looked up again there was movement in the mirror, just visible from the corner of my eye, but when I turned the little room was empty. 

I exhaled slowly, and then started again when there was a tap on the door. "Malcolm?" Oliver opened the door and smiled at me. "Not planning to leave already, are you?"

"I wanted to wash up a little."

"Come back to bed," he said, as he gave me my cane with one hand and took my free hand with the other. "Elizabeth doesn't expect me home until tomorrow morning. We've got all night."

I let him tug me along, albeit reluctantly. We hadn't talked much since I first stepped in the door, and I was disappointed with myself and how easily I had fallen into bed with him again. This was not stopping it. This was not ending things. 

We lay like spoons on the bed, and he stroked my chest. "You're quiet tonight."

"Yes," I said. And partially because I was curious, and partially because I didn't want to broach the subject that most needed to be broached, I said, "Are there any stories about this hotel being haunted?"

"I've heard one or two," Oliver said. "Old hotels tend to have stories like that attached, just like old houses. Supposedly a child was playing on one of the balconies and fall off and died, and there's been a suicide or two. Why?"

"It's just a spooky old place," I said. I'd never told him about the ghosts I saw, of course -- not the war dead, not the old man I sometimes saw reading in the rocking chair in Oliver's own study, not the students who had died in a scarlet fever epidemic at Goodwin one winter not long after its founding. 

"You love this old place," Oliver replied, kissing me, "it's _our_ place," and I sighed. He pulled back with a frown. "What is it?"

I sat up, and he did as well, still frowning at me. "Oliver. I realized something while I was in California."

"You're not still angry with me, are you?" Oliver wheedled. "Don't be angry with me. I wanted to come with you, I truly did, but I couldn't get away." He leaned in to kiss me again but I stopped him, my hands on his chest.

"I'm not angry." It's true, I wasn't. "But this isn't what I want anymore."

He gazed at me unhappily. "What happened? You ran into an old love and decided you'd rather be with him?"

"No," I said. "I don't have any old loves to run into. You're not free, Oliver. You're not _mine_."

Oliver looked away with a deep sigh. There were more streaks of gray in his dark hair than I remembered from the last time we'd been together, and there was no missing the lines beside his eyes and mouth. In a way, I supposed, I was his midlife crisis -- buying an ostentatious car was for other men, but Oliver Davenport would take a male lover half his age.

"Is this an ultimatum?" he said, looking back at me. "I'm not giving you enough of my time so you'll threaten to leave me until I do?"

"I'm not giving you an ultimatum," I said.

He went right on as if I hadn't spoken. "Is it a place of your own that you want? You want a house? I'll buy you a house -- with a studio, so you can concentrate on your art."

"My art?" I shoved my hands through my hair. "I draw caricatures and cartoons. I don't want you to buy me a house."

"Then what do you want?"

"More than you can give me," I said. "More than being someone's secret."

"Men like you can't live their lives in public. You know that."

"I do know," I said. "But I still want to. It's all right, Oliver. You have what you want out of your life. I want to look for what I want out of mine."

"Without me," Oliver said. "You'll leave me alone, without any kind of refuge --"

"There'll always be someone for you, Oliver. That someone may even be your wife."

Oliver looked away from me again, scowling this time. "After all this time, you feel guilty enough to leave me."

"I don't feel guilty," I said. "We're grown men. We make our own decisions. And I've decided I want more than this."

"More than _me_."

"More than what you can give me." I took his face in my hands and tipped it up so I could kiss his mouth. He sighed, but allowed our foreheads to rest together as I spoke. "I didn't run into an old love in California, but I was with my family. My parents were in love for forty years. My sister just had a baby with a man she adores. My younger brother is getting married when he finishes college, and even my older brother's widow has found love again. I'm the odd man out, Oliver. There's no reason that has to be, no matter what society says. I want the chance to find it."

"So you'll leave me."

"Yes. And I'm leaving Louisville. I don't know where I'm going yet, but I need a new place if I'm going to start over. Chicago, first, for a few weeks. Then, who knows?"

Oliver looked up at me. "Let me help you."

"Oliver--"

"I mean it. I know people all over the country. If you want to teach I can help you find another school or even a private position, and if you want to do something else I can help with that, too."

"I can find my own way," I said, though I knew no matter how much I demurred Oliver would still do what he felt he should to make things right. "I'll leave my sister's phone number with your secretary, in case you find something you think might interest me."

Oliver nodded slowly, still unhappy. "You'll be all right," he said. "You always are, I suspect." He let go of me and got out of bed to gather his clothes.

The little ghost-girl was in the corner of the room again, watching Oliver with her dark, sunken eyes. "Cold in here," Oliver remarked as he pulled on his trousers. "Aren't you cold?"

"Yeah," I said, "cold," and pulled up the blankets.

***

I gave Archie my resignation before the week was out. He was sorry to see me go, which was gratifying, but as we talked about it over coffee in his office, he understood the wanderlust. "You're still a young man," he said. "You could see the world when it's not at war. I've often wondered why you didn't go to Paris to begin with, and study art in depth."

"I don't know if Europe is the answer," I said. "I don't even know if I want to study art more. It's just a way to pass the time." I drank some coffee, and said, "Do you ever want to go back?"

He shrugged. "I may take my wife someday, when the children are older."

He didn't say anything more about it, and I didn't ask. I understood. 

When the term ended a few months later, I packed up my little set of rooms into a trunk and a rucksack. It seemed like little to show for a man turning thirty; even less to show for all that I'd seen and experienced in that time.

There was a tap on my door. "Come in," I said as I picked up the the photos of my family, the last things I intended to pack tonight. 

The door opened a crack and Henry Forrester peered in, and then came in and sat on the bed beside me. "You're really leaving."

"I am."

He inhaled, then said rapidly, "Let me come with you. We could find a place to live together. We could teach at the same school. We could be -- whatever it is that you're looking for."

I looked at Henry. He was a tall, slim young man, with soulful eyes and dark hair he had only recently stopped wearing military-short. At this time of night his evening stubble showed dark along his jaw.

Before the war, all of that might have been enough. God knows I had chosen lovers knowing less about them. 

I put my hand on his shoulder, and he turned to me, slinging his arms across my chest, and laid his head on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Henry," I said as I rubbed his back, and he sighed deeply. "You're a sweet boy, you really are, but I don't know what I'm looking for. I don't think I'll know until I find it."

He raised his head and kissed me. I allowed it, but just for a moment -- I didn't want to encourage him. "Someday, Malcolm," he said as he rose, "someday you're going to want someone you can't have, and you'll miss the ones you could."

"A fate worse than death," I said, and when the door was closed behind him I exhaled and thought it had already happened, in ways he'd never imagined.

***

In the morning a groundskeeper carried my trunk and rucksack downstairs to the car that would take me to the train station. I had already said goodbye to Archie and the other friends I'd made, and I tried not to get too sentimental about the students I wouldn't get to usher through their elementary years.

The train ride north gave me plenty of time think. In a way, Archie was right -- I hadn't been dealing with what happened to me during the war since I'd come home, not any more than I needed to given the wounds I'd received and the recovery I'd had to make. Times were different then -- an entire generation of men dealt with the horrors they'd experienced with little more help than a glass of whiskey before bed, and I was not much more enlightened in that regard. 

I was grieving the loss of Oliver on the train ride, but my heart wasn't broken. I had known from the start that I was not Oliver's priority. He loved his boys; in his way, he even loved his wife; in a small way, he might have even loved me. But our relationship was not something built to last. There had been others before me and there would be others after, because Oliver had affairs like other people changed shoes. 

It was not the life I wanted. And unlike the current Mrs. Davenport, I could leave.

Still, while my head said it was the right thing to do and if I wanted happiness I needed to seek it elsewhere, my heart and my body yearned for him -- or if not for him, for someone strong and gentle and kind, who thought I was wonderful and never once treated me like something fragile because of my limp and cane. 

As the train grew closer to Chicago, I gazed out the window and pondered what exactly I would do next. Another private school would be ideal, and I preferred elementary ages -- but then again, I had taught in a public high school before the war and supposed I would be all right returning to one, if no other opportunities presented themselves.

But first I would seek refuge with Mary Kate for a while. Maybe I would look for something entirely different, something more progressive than Goodwin School, someplace where the temptations were few and the demands of privilege not so quick to be granted. Maybe there would be a school in Chicago that would need me.

When the train came to a stop, to my surprise I saw Mary Kate alone on the platform. She wrapped me in her arms as soon as I disembarked, and we held each other in silence for a moment or two. She smelled like soap and baby powder, homey and comforting.

Finally she pulled back and searched my face with clear blue eyes. "Tell me everything."

"When we're home," I said. I was exhausted -- the constant sitting required by train travel made my bad leg ache from hip to ankle, and pain made me light-headed. "Where are George and the baby?"

"I left them at home. George is more adept at child care than you'd think. Stay here," she added, and with a brisk whistle got the attention of a porter to help us get my trunk to her little car -- something I never would have dreamed of doing before the war, but I'd had complete use of both legs then. Now, I just looked embarrassed as the porter bore my trunk along and chatted with Mary Kate about the weather.

Once we were at their house and I was settled in, I played with Rosemary and told Mary Kate the whole story: my involvement with Oliver, my realization at Mom's funeral, the restlessness I'd felt ever since I returned from California. 

Mary Kate frowned more and more, and then said, "Are you going to see Mr. Davenport again?"

"He may call me if he finds a job he thinks I'd like," I said. "Other than that, I don't intend to seek him out."

"He wants to buy you a house," she replied. "Now that you're safely three hundred miles away, he can have you as a lover and not worry about word getting back to his wife."

I played with Rosemary's little hands. She kicked her feet and blew bubbles against her lips, making me smile.

"I don't want to be his kept man," I said. "God, can you imagine? Living like some backstreet mistress? I don't want to be anyone's secret anymore."

Ever practical, Mary Kate said, "How? Being a confirmed bachelor is one thing. Two confirmed bachelors living together only makes people suspicious nowadays."

"I don't know," I said. "If I loved someone that much, we'd find a way. All I know for certain is that it won't be with Oliver. Our relationship is over. Done."

"I hope it stays that way," said Mary Kate.

My conversation with Mary Kate made me think perhaps more distance from Kentucky was wise, and so I extended my search for a new position beyond the Midwest. Meantime, I took a job tutoring at a summer school, and helped students who had fallen behind get ready for the next grade. It was good work and I felt some pride in it, but it held no more long-term appeal for me than any of the other offers that came my way.

I was restless. I wanted something more than this city, as charming as its narrow streets and towering skyscrapers could be. I thought about returning to California -- Los Angeles was booming -- or even doing as Archie suggested, going back to Europe to see it now that it was no longer at war.

I might have taken to the roads like so many former soldiers, who traced the highways from one side of the country to the other in jalopies and rattle-trap cars; but my wounds made driving long distances uncomfortable if not downright painful. A train journey was the most I could manage.

Since my body couldn't run away, my mind did. In my spare moments I drew a story I had begun in the army hospital. I suppose you would call it a comic, as the story was told through words and pictures, but it was neither particularly funny nor about superheroes like the comics popular among my students. It was the story of a knight of the Crusades that I named Sir Errant, who decided not to return to England when his Crusade was done, and instead wandered around Europe having adventures. I worked on the story whenever I was bored, or when I felt the need to express myself in ways I couldn't elsewhere, or just when I couldn't sleep.

I didn't sleep much.


	4. Noel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> “Someday, Malcolm, someday you’re going to want someone you can’t have, and you’ll miss the ones you could.”

One warm evening in August, I was on the back porch, drawing in the twilight, when the phone rang inside. A few moments later, George poked out his head. "Phone for you, Malcolm. Says his name is Davenport."

Despite my resolutions, my heart leapt and I got to my feet -- the phone cord didn't reach further than the kitchen -- to take the call. Mary Kate was washing up from supper, and gave me a worried look as I picked up the receiver.

"Malcolm Carmichael," I said.

"Malcolm, it's Oliver. I'm in Chicago for a few days and I'd love to see you."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," I began.

"Just for lunch," Oliver said. "I'm going back to Louisville tomorrow afternoon. I'm not even alone -- there's someone I want you to meet."

"Who?"

"A potential employer." I sighed heavily and he said, "I know you said you don't want my help, but at least meet the man, Malcolm. Hear him out. I think this position would suit you perfectly."

"All right," I said. "Thank you, Oliver."

"Though I still wish you'd let me take care of you."

I removed the phone from my ear a moment, and when I put it back I said, "How's Elizabeth?"

There was a pause. "Pregnant."

"Congratulations," I said sincerely. There was no stab of jealousy like there might have been four months ago. They had found their own way to make their marriage work, and it was no longer any of my concern. "Where do you want to meet?"

"My hotel is downtown -- Palmer House. You'll love it, it's like a work of art."

We agreed to meet in the lobby at noon, and to eat in the Empire Room, the hotel's main restaurant, and we hung up. Mary Kate was still washing the dishes, so I went to the sink to dry them and stack them in the drying rack. "What did Oliver want?"

"He asked me to lunch. He thinks he's found a job for me."

"You already have a job."

"Just summer school," I said. "It'll be over in a few weeks, and I haven't found what I want to do next yet."

She handed me a wet plate and I swiped the towel over it. She was frowning, and I said, "Out with it."

"You haven't found what you want to do next because you're looking for something perfect, which doesn't exist. No job is perfect." She paused, washing a glass. "No lover is perfect, either."

I dried another plate. "I'm not looking for perfection."

"Really? You're _not_ holding everyone to an impossible standard?"

"That's not fair," I said.

She leaned her head on my arm. "Sorry. Sorry, love. Whenever you go out you look so hopeful and then you come back so depressed. I have no idea what goes on between men --"

"Basically the same things that happen between men and women."

"-- but whatever it is, it's not making you happy."

I wiped a glass with the dishtowel. It wasn't hard to find places where men like me gathered, and I'd met a few that I liked, but none of them were special enough to keep.

She said softly, "Nothing's quite so hard to replace as a dead lover. They'll always be perfect in your memory."

"You don't know anything about it," I snapped -- and then winced, because she knew better than anyone.

She put down the dish she was washing and stalked out of the kitchen. I started to follow and she whirled to me and spat, "Don't you dare, Malcolm Carmichael."

So I didn't follow. I finished the dishes, dried them and put them away, and went out to the porch again to contemplate my shortcomings in the dark.

***

It was raining that Saturday, so I took a taxi to the Palmer House hotel. I was early -- no sign of Oliver in the lobby -- though I did discover that the restaurant was up a sweeping staircase, a sight that made me sigh.

I chose one of the leather armchairs near the staircase and took out my sketchbook to pass the time. I drew a few quick studies of the more interesting faces of the people who passed through the lobby with their umbrellas and raincoats, but none of them really caught my attention until a man entered the lobby through the Monroe Street doors -- a man so lovely that my pencil paused and my breath caught.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with wide-set eyes that swept over the lounge in a cool, measured way, and a stern set to his features, like someone accustomed to being in command. His dark hair was pushed back from his face, thick, wavy, and longer than was currently fashionable. His clothes fit his body perfectly, from the cuffs of his raincoat to the toes of his Oxfords, and all looked expensive and custom-made. His bearing was military-straight, not an unusual sight in those post-war days, his shoulders a perfect square and his feet planted solidly on the marble floor.

He was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Just one look and I wanted him, fervently and fully and without hope of possession.

I drew a quick sketch of him as he stood there, just a few spare lines to capture the width of his shoulders and the shape of his face, until Oliver Davenport came down the stairs and joined him. They exchanged a few words in a familiar way that told me this was the colleague Oliver wanted me to meet. It took a moment of searching for Oliver to find me, and then he smiled and gestured for the man to follow him as he crossed the lobby.

I put my pencil and sketchbook away in my own raincoat and got to my feet so we could greet each other and exchange pleasantries. "Malcolm Carmichael, this is Noel Thibodeaux," Oliver said to introduce us, "my colleague from New Orleans," and we shook hands. Noel's skin was cool from being out in the rain, and his hand lingered in mine a moment longer than a usual handshake did.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carmichael," he said in a voice that spoke to me of jazz music and air fragrant with spices. His eyes were the color of the ocean, blue and green and grey at once, and it seemed to me that they held the same hunger as mine as we gazed at each other.

Oliver glanced from Noel to me and back, and then he slapped us both on our backs in his most jovial manner. "Come, gentlemen, the roast beef here is said to be excellent," he said and herded us to the staircase.

I was about to grasp the banister and begin the task of hauling myself up when Noel said, "Oliver, there's a pub on this floor, isn't there? We ought to eat there instead."

I looked at him, surprised enough not to cut in that I didn't need to be coddled, and Oliver said, "Oh! Oh, of course. Let's go to the pub instead."

"Thanks," I murmured to Noel as we crossed the lobby to the pub, and he shrugged a shoulder.

"Don't mention it," he said easily.

The food and atmosphere in the pub was not as upscale as it must have been in the main restaurant, but that suited me just fine -- I was so taken with Noel Thibodeaux that I hardly noticed the surroundings aside from dark woods and the murmur of male voices.

We took off our raincoats, settled into a booth, and perused the menu. Oliver was a hale and hearty man, but Noel's cool beauty made him seem coarse by comparison. Noel's voice was a low drawl; it made Oliver's Kentucky accent, which I had previously found charming, seem rushed and grating. Everything about Noel made me compare him to Oliver and find Oliver lacking.

"Noel is one of our engineers," Oliver informed me. "He designs the water systems for our high-rises."

"Or I tell you if a location doesn't have enough water," Noel said.

Oliver waved a hand. "You've found ways to make it work."

"True. What's a few thousand gallons less for farmland, here and there," Noel remarked. I drank my coffee, smiling behind my cup, and our eyes met and lingered before parting again.

We were enjoying the pub's roast beef sandwiches when Oliver said, "Noel, I lured Malcolm out today with the prospect of employment. Would you like to tell Malcolm your situation or shall I?"

"I will." Noel wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and said, "My brother and his wife died in a fire last March. They left their son in my care. He was so traumatized by the fire that he hasn't spoken a word since, and while I know nothing about raising a child I do know that putting him in a school won't help his situation. He sees a child psychologist twice a week, but she isn't in a position to help him with his schooling. I'm looking for someone to tutor him until he's ready to be among other children."

"When he told me this, I immediately thought of you," Oliver said to me, and I managed to look merely grateful instead of blatantly ecstatic.

"What's your nephew's name?" I asked Noel.

The stern lines of his face softened. "Caleb. Caleb Thibodeaux. He's just turned five."

"That's right in my age group," I said. "I've been teaching first and second-graders since 1947."

"Did you teach before the war?"

"I did -- I taught high school French in San Francisco, where I grew up."

"Why didn't you go back? I've always thought it's a lovely city, when I've visited."

No matter how attracted I was to him, I was not about to tell a complete stranger about the ghosts that kept me away from home. I merely said, "I needed a change of scenery."

"God," Noel murmured, "I understand that," and our gazes held each other's again. Oliver drank his martini, looking away.

"Where did you serve, Mr. Thibodeaux?"

"Pacific theater," he said.

"Malcolm was in Europe," Oliver put in. "He was in one of the units that invaded on D-Day."

"Was that where you were wounded?" Noel asked me.

"That didn't happen until later," I said. "In Hurtgen Forest, after the battle of Paris."

"Noel's service is still classified," Oliver said.

"Oh?" I said to Noel.

Noel smiled, tight-lipped, and sipped his water. "It's nothing that dramatic. I was in the Pioneer Troops."

The Pioneer Troops were legendary, even among those of us who had served in Europe -- a volunteer unit of army engineers trained in jungle warfare, who prepared the way for the infantry to follow. It took a special kind of bravery to serve in a unit like that, and my admiration for Noel Thibodeaux only grew.

Oliver, I should add, did not enlist and got a deferment for the draft due to having four dependent children. His children with his first wife were in their teens at the time, and his and Elizabeth's two oldest boys were just toddlers when the war began.

I said to Noel, "I believe it -- you move like someone accustomed to not making a sound."

"And we've only known each other half an hour," he remarked. "Astounding."

"Malcolm is a keen observer," said Oliver. "It's the artist in him."

Noel looked at me, his head tipped to the side just enough to show his curiosity, and I said, "Artist is a bit grand for what I do. I draw cartoons."

"He's just being modest," Oliver said. "Show him a picture, Malcolm."

Feeling like a show pony, I took out my pocket sketchbook and flipped it open to my latest subject -- the quick sketch of Noel in the lobby, regal and cool as a young king. Noel looked at it and then looked at me, a corner of his mouth tugging up as if against his will.

"Very fine work," he said, and then hesitated a moment before taking out a slim leather-bound photo wallet from his own suit jacket. On one side, it contained a family portrait: a man who looked almost exactly like Noel, except he didn't have Noel's military-straight bearing and did have a broad and ready smile; a young woman with a sweet, pretty face and dark hair in a braid that fell over her shoulder; and a little boy, three or four the time, with the same dark wavy hair, wide-set eyes, and broad cheekbones his father and uncle possessed. They posed in a comfortable family group: the father standing behind mother and child with a hand on her shoulder, the mother seated, the child leaning against her knee.

Noel said softly, "My twin, Simon; his wife, Grace, and Caleb."

The other side of the wallet held a picture of Noel and Simon in Army and Navy dress uniforms respectively. Simon had achieved the rank of petty officer, and wore the medals we all had been given for service and for victory. Noel, in addition to those medals, had a Bronze Star, a medal given for heroic action.

They were both laughing joyfully when the picture had been snapped, clearly happy to be together now that the war was over. From the ring on Simon's finger, I thought the picture must have been taken when he married Grace -- quite probably the first and only time both men had gotten out their dress uniforms once they came home. My own dress uniform was in a garment storage box at my father's house, along with my Purple Heart and other medals in a velvet bag meant for transporting jewelry.

I gave the wallet back. "I'm interested in the position, Mr. Thibodeaux."

"I'm interested in offering it to you, Mr. Carmichael," Noel said, and Oliver looked less than pleased, and unsettled by it. But I supposed he hadn't thought Noel and I would generate such electricity between us, either.

We ended our meal with light small talk, and as we were having coffee, Noel said, "Where is a good place to catch a cab, Oliver?"

"Don't want to walk in the rain, Noel?" Oliver said, his tone still jovial.

Noel smiled thinly again, his cool gaze fixed on Oliver, and Oliver cleared his throat uncomfortably and finished his coffee in a single gulp. Noel may have been Oliver's employee -- or a consultant for his firm, I wasn't clear on how the construction business worked -- but it seemed to me that Oliver wanted to stay in his good graces. Noel was such a young man, a year or two older than me at most, but he commanded the room like those born into power. I wanted to know how he had achieved this cool, regal grace. I wanted to hear his stories, from the front and from home. Everything I knew about him fascinated me already, and I longed to know more.

Noel said, calm, "I mean for Mr. Carmichael."

"Oh," Oliver said as if the notion hadn't occurred to him. "There's a cab stall in front of the hotel. I'll have the doorman hail a cab for him."

"It's not necessary," I said. "I can hail my own cab."

Noel met my eyes. "Rain makes your leg ache."

"That's true," I admitted.

"There's no need for you to wait in the wet as cabs pass you by." He looked at Oliver expectantly, and Oliver nodded like he'd just been put in his place and rose from the table.

"I'll be right back." He left the pub.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Noel said to me in a low voice, "I want to see you again."

"Name the time," I answered. "Are you staying here?"

"No, I don't like this place. I find it too full of self-satisfied businessmen."

I laughed and he smiled, faintly, more with his eyes than his mouth. "I'll come to your hotel, then," I said.

"No, not there, either. I'll come to you."

"I live with my sister and her family," I said. "It's no place for -- for an assignation."

"I just want to talk," Noel said and I must have shown my dismay because he put his hand on mine before hastily taking it away. "Don't look so disappointed."

"No, you're right. We should talk alone." I tore out a page from my sketchbook and wrote Mary Kate's address on it, and handed it to him as Oliver returned.

"What's this?" he said, his eyes darting from the folded page to my face. "Passing notes?"

"It's Mr. Carmichael's address, so that I can discuss the position with him further once our other business is finished." Noel put the paper away in his coat pocket and held out his hand to me. "Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carmichael. We'll talk again soon."

"We will," I said, shaking his hand, and I watched him leave the lobby with longing.

As we waited in the lobby for my cab, Oliver said, "You like him."

"I do."

"He likes you, too."

"It would appear so," I said.

Oliver started to speak, stopped, and then said, "Don't let the Creole charm fool you, Malcolm. Noel Thibodeaux is a cold one, even before the war. He was completely devoted to his work until this matter with his nephew came along. I didn't even think he liked children until he asked if I knew how to find a tutor."

"Do you know anything about his brother? The twin?"

Oliver shrugged. "Very little. I know they were close -- Noel took almost a month of bereavement leave when he and his wife died. I'm sure part of that was trying to get Caleb settled." He glanced at me. "I think you'll be good for him."

"Thank you."

He was quiet a moment, then said, "I come down to New Orleans three or four times a year. I could--"

"No, Oliver," I said. "You've got other responsibilities. Don't even think about me."

Before he could answer, one of the bellhops came to tell us my cab had arrived, so Oliver walked with me through the lobby to the main entrance to the hotel. The doorman held an umbrella over our heads and opened the cab door for me, and I got in and arranged my cane beside me.

Before the cab could pull away, Oliver bent down and said, "One more thing, Malcolm. Noel asked me a strange question when we were talking about you. He wanted to know if you believe in ghosts."

I forced myself to laugh. Now was not the time to go into all of the grey faces I saw. "You can tell him I don't," I said.

Oliver nodded with a faint smile, closed the door, and patted the top of the cab to tell it to go.


	5. Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> "Noel asked me a strange question when we were talking about you. He wanted to know if you believe in ghosts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speeding up the posting schedule a little!

George was home alone when I returned to the house, reading _Popular Mechanics_ as he sipped coffee at the kitchen table. "Mary Kate's doing the shopping," he said when I asked. "How was your lunch?"

"Surprising," I said. "I might have a new job."

"Wow," George said. "I thought it was just to catch up with an old friend."

"It was also that." I fidgeted with my cane a moment. "Did Mary Kate say anything to you about being angry with me?"

"No," he answered, closing the magazine. " _Is_ she angry with you?"

"Probably. I said something stupid to her last night."

"She doesn't hold grudges," he said to reassure me, and I had to laugh.

"You didn't grow up with her," I said. "Once she waited three years to get her revenge for the time I ate her Halloween candy."

George burst out laughing. "What did she do?"

"I had this pair of boots that I loved and wore all the time," I said. "She saved for months to buy a pair exactly the same, but a size smaller. It took me a week to figure out why my favorite boots suddenly no longer fit."

George was still laughing when I saw Mary Kate pull their sedan into the little garage behind the house. I picked up the umbrella from the stand by the door and told George, "I'm going to help her with the groceries," and went out to meet her.

She was getting Rosemary out of her booster seat as I came into the garage. "Want me to take the baby or the groceries?" I said.

"Baby," she said and handed Rosemary over to me. "And if you'll send Georgie out he can help with the rest."

"I was hoping to have a minute with you first." I hitched Rosemary against my chest, and she grabbed my shirt and babbled to me. I grinned at her. "Tell me all about it, Rosie-girl."

Mary Kate leaned against the car and folded her arms. "We have a minute."

I inhaled. "I was an ass last night and I'm sorry. Of course you know what it's like. I'm sorry."

Mary Kate sighed and shoved a hand through her loose blonde hair. Today she wore peddle-pushers and one of George's old sweaters for running errands, and with her casual clothes and her hair down, she looked like the girl I remembered from before the war.

She wasn't that girl anymore, and hadn't been for a long time. I had to remember that.

"Thank you, Malcolm," she said quietly and kissed my cheek, and when Rosemary squeaked Mary Kate laughed and kissed hers, too. "Take my baby inside now, please."

"Yes, ma'am," I said and left the umbrella with Mary Kate, and pulled my jacket over Rosemary's head to keep her dry as we crossed the garden.

Once the groceries were inside, as we put them away I told Mary Kate and George about meeting Noel Thibodeaux, the tutor position, and Caleb's situation. I left out the attraction I felt toward Noel, as well as the plans we had made to meet again before he left for New Orleans.

Mary Kate was not pleased I had gone to see Oliver, but her expression grew pensive when I explained about Caleb. "The poor boy," she said and stooped to kiss Rosemary's head as the baby played in her high chair. "I've no doubt you'll be good for him -- but oh, Mal, Louisiana is so far away."

"So was Kentucky," I said.

George said, "No plans to go back to California?"

"None," I said. "It's too painful. I just can't handle the memories."

Mary Kate cupped my face in her palm for a moment. "I know what you mean, honey."

"New Orleans is supposed to be a beautiful city," George remarked. "I've always wanted to see it."

"I've heard stories about it," I replied. "One of the men in my unit was a Cajun. I ought to write him and ask him about it."

Mary Kate said as she climbed on a step-stool to put away canned fruit on a high shelf, "It's always seemed like it's too eccentric for the rest of the country." She turned and studied me. "And yet I can imagine you there, walking those old streets -- just like I imagined you in Paris after the war."

"I doubt I'll have much time for sight-seeing," I said. "I'm sure most of my time will be spent looking after Caleb Thibodeaux. That'll be the hard part -- a five-year-old who doesn't speak. How will I know if he understands what we're studying?"

"You'll find a way," Mary Kate said. "The main thing to remember is that he's a grieving little boy who needs a lot of love and patience. You can give that."

"I hope you're right," I said, when the doorbell rang. "I'll get that."

On the front porch stood Noel, his back to the door. I had to take a deep breath before I turned the knob, and I said, "Noel, it's so good to see you," as he turned to me.

He was not a man given to smiling, I had noticed that at lunch, nor did he laugh much. But his eyes relaxed when he saw me, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. A few raindrops clung to his hair and cheekbones, and his overcoat was dotted with more.

"Hello," he said quietly, and a little breathlessly, too.

"Hello," I said. "Won't you come in? I'd like you to meet my sister and her family." I held out my hand, which he looked at before he took it and stepped inside.

I took him to the kitchen. Mary Kate hopped off the step-stool when she saw Noel, and ran a hand through her hair. George looked from me to her and back again, and held out his hand. "George Talbot, and this is my wife, Mary Kate."

Noel said, "Noel Thibodeaux," in his Louisiana accent and shook George's hand, and both he and Mary Kate smiled in return.

"And this is Rosemary." Mary Kate took the baby out of her high chair, and Rosemary goggled at the strange man in their kitchen.

"It's lovely to meet you, Mr. Talbot, Mrs. Talbot," said Noel, "and you too, Rosemary." He offered a finger to her, which she solemnly and deliberately grasped, and then stuffed into her mouth.

"Oops!" said Mary Kate and worked his finger loose from Rosemary's grip. "Sorry about that."

"It's quite all right," said Noel, and wiped baby spit from his finger with his handkerchief. The small smile I had noticed earlier was back in his eyes.

George said, "Do you two have plans for the afternoon?"

"I thought we might ramble around the neighborhood a little," I said.

"In this weather, Mal?" Mary Kate said in her most motherly tone.

"Mary Kate, come on," I began.

Noel said quickly, "Would it be all right if we stayed in? It's a bit wet and chilly for a ramble."

"Oh," I said, "of course it is," and Mary Kate gave him a grateful look.

I took him to the back of the house. We could have talked in the living room or even the kitchen -- Mary Kate made delicious coffee and would make more if I asked -- but I wanted a little more privacy than the main rooms could offer. The house had come with what the real estate agent called a mother-in-law apartment, which was really just a bedroom, water closet, and sitting room -- all about the size of a postage stamp, but it gave me a little privacy when I needed it. The views were only of the back yard and the alley between this house and the neighbors, but I had put cheap paper prints of landscapes and famous paintings on the walls, and they helped when the tiny rooms felt claustrophobic.

I took Noel to the sitting room. The furniture there was sparse but comfortable, with a small love-seat that faced the window, and I had a record player and some 45s for entertainment.

Noel picked up one of the 45s as I eased myself onto the love-seat. "Fats Domino," he said in an approving tone.

"I've been a jazz fan since before the war," I said.

"Is there a jazz scene in California?"

"Not a big one," I said, "but I could always get records." I leaned back, my legs outstretched, and folded my hands over my stomach as Noel put the record onto the turntable. He didn't dance, but he swayed a little as he undid the buttons on his raincoat. I said softly, watching him take off the coat and then his suit jacket, "Not like what you grew up with, I'm sure."

"Hm," in an agreeable sort of tone. "It was always there, even as isolated as Fidele is." He moved to the built-in bookcase and started reading the titles. My hands twitched, wanting him closer. "My brother and I used to sneak out to go to Bourbon Street and listen to music in any place that would let us in." He was a quiet a moment, his gaze directed somewhere other than the books in front of him. "He loved music. He's played with some of the best jazz musicians in New Orleans."

"What did he play?"

"Piano."

"Do you play it, too?"

"A little," Noel said. He finally turned away from the shelves and came to the sofa. "I'm not as talented as Simon was. Do you play anything?"

"Guitar," I said.

He picked up my hand and ran his thumb over my fingertips. "But you have no callouses. You haven't played for a long time."

"If I start playing again," I said, "they'll bleed."

"You don't strike me as the kind to be afraid of blood."

"I'm not afraid of blood."

"Then why don't you play?"

I gazed at him -- dark hair framing his face, his intense ocean-colored eyes, a mouth that looked like it could be so, so soft -- and said, "There's not much music left in me since the war."

He touched my cheek with the back of his knuckles. I closed my eyes and kissed the inside of his wrist.

"Malcolm," he said. He moved onto the sofa to kneel over me and held my face in both hands. "I want this to happen, I do, but--"

"Then let it happen." My arms went around his waist.

"Oh, God," he sighed and kissed me. His mouth was cool and tasted like water, clean and sweet, and even though we had been inside for some minutes now he still smelled like rain.

I wondered how often he had done this, kissed someone desperately with one ear cocked to listen for footsteps, and then I stopped thinking anything because his throat was under my lips and his head was thrown back, his eyes closed, his face beautiful as he lost himself in bliss.

Before I could leave a mark on his neck Noel shoved his hands into my hair, tilted back my head, kissed me harder. One hand slid down the front of my shirt and he flicked open the top button, then the next, and then pressed his palm against my chest, where my heart was racing.

Abruptly Noel pulled away. We both were trembling, and his face was flushed. Mine felt hot, and it was all I could do to keep my hands from sliding down the back of his exquisite trousers.

"Malcolm," he said, his voice hoarse, and he swallowed hard. "I want to hire you."

"Thank you, I accept," I said, grinning at him.

"Listen to me," he said and held onto my shirt collar. "This is important."

"I'm listening." I wasn't, not entirely, because his throat was right there and so delectable that I wanted to taste it again.

"My father wants to take Caleb away from me," Noel said, and it was as if he had thrown a bucket of cold water on me. I frowned at him and he gazed back unhappily. "He threatened to take me to court for custody of Caleb if I didn't bring him to Fidele to live. He knows I'm queer. He could ruin me -- have me thrown in prison, if he wanted, and he wouldn't hesitate to do it if he had the proof. I can't give him a single reason to threaten my guardianship."

"I see," I said, though the thought of walking into that situation make my stomach roil. I already hated having to hide who I wanted and loved except from the people who knew me best, and even then I couldn't tell them everything. I let Noel go and leaned back into the sofa.

"Do you think we can live in the same house and not..." He paused, as if searching for the right word.

"Not paw at each other constantly?" I said and he cracked a smile. "I can if you can."

"I'm sure I can." He scrubbed his hand through his hair, and it was hard not to get lost in the way the thick locks slipped through his fingers. "I prefer to keep my liaisons short-term. It's just better that way."

"I understand." Even so, I said, "I don't suppose doing it once just to get it out of our systems is a possibility?"

"I don't think that would be wise."

"It's sex," I said. "It's never wise."

He huffed and finally climbed off my lap and went to the record player to turn the record over. I felt bereft without the warmth of his body pressing against mine, and sighed heavily.

He said, "I think you'd be good for Caleb. That's the thing. I've interviewed half a dozen possible tutors since last April and you're the first one who just wants to teach him, not lock him away in an institution or break through to him with some bizarre new therapy." He turned to me. "You just want to teach him. That's all I want. He'll speak again when he's ready, and not a minute before. I'm willing to sacrifice a few things for Caleb's happiness."

"Including your own?"

"That's awfully presumptuous."

"I think we could make each other very happy, even if it's just for a short time."

Noel ran his hand through his hair again. A smile lurked at the corners of his mouth, but still he said, "I think I'd better go."

"So you're not offering me the job."

"I _am_ offering you the job," he said as he buttoned his jacket again. "Are you accepting it?"

I started to answer yes, then said, "I need to think about it a little more."

Noel nodded. "Don't keep me waiting long, please."

"Leave the number for your hotel and I'll call you tonight."

"Do you have your sketchbook?" I did, so I gave it to him and he wrote in it quickly, and gave it back. He touched my earlobe. "I really am sorry, Malcolm. I wish we could make it work."

"There are more important things," I said, and then took his hand and kissed his palm desperately. He touched my hair and then pulled himself away.

"Goodbye, Malcolm," he said and left the sitting room. I heard Mary Kate say, "Won't you stay for supper, Mr. Thibodeaux?" and he answered her, "No, thank you, Mrs. Talbot," and she saw him out.

She came into the sitting room a few minutes after Noel left, Rosemary on her hip. "What was that all about?"

"We talked about the job."

Her eyes flicked over my open shirt and disheveled hair. "Clearly."

I shrugged and smiled, unabashed. "He's really beautiful."

"He is that." She sat beside me on the sofa and placed Rosemary on her crossed legs. "Did he offer you the job?"

"He did. I don't know if I should take it, though. He has some good reasons for us not to be together, and I'm honestly not sure I can keep my hands off him. On the other hand," I said and took a deep breath, "Noel thinks I'd be good for his nephew." I gave my fingers to Rosemary for her to grab and gum. "What do you think?"

She said slowly, "I think he's right, too. I also think you're capable of self-control."

"Yeah," I murmured. I was -- I'd had to be, during the war, and I supposed I could be for a while longer if I needed to. For the sake of Caleb Thibodeaux, I needed to.

"I told him I'll call him tonight to give him my decision," I told Mary Kate.

"Are you going to tell him yes?"

"I think so." I leaned over to kiss Rosemary's soft curls. I was going to miss them, but New Orleans was only a train ride away. "I'd love it if you came down to visit while I'm there, so you can experience the city."

"I think we should."

I nodded, letting Rosemary gnaw on my forefinger as Mary Kate rested her head on my shoulder. The question Oliver had asked before I left the hotel was still on my mind -- but New Orleans was an old city, and old cities are full of ghosts. I'd caught a few glimpses even here, in bustling Chicago. Fortunately, they had never followed me home. Something about this cozy little house seemed to keep them away.

From the sound of things, the Thibodeaux house would not have that same coziness -- but that was all the more reason I should take the job, I thought. There would be one more person to make a lost little boy feel safe, if I did my job properly.

"I should start getting supper ready," Mary Kate said, lifting her head from my shoulder. "Would you try to get Rosie to sleep a bit?"

"I'm sure I can be that dull," I said and took the baby, and Mary Kate laughed at us both and went back to the kitchen.

***

After supper, I called Noel's hotel. I thought he might be out, enjoying the pleasures Chicago had to offer, but he picked up the phone almost as soon as the front desk connected us. "Noel Thibodeaux."

I closed my eyes when I heard his voice, imagining how it would sound hoarse with passion, rough against my skin in the dark. I cleared my throat. "It's Malcolm Carmichael. I've decided to accept the position, if you're still offering it to me."

"I am," he said. "Thank you. I'll have my secretary to send you the contract first thing Monday morning."

"Thank you."

We both paused. He said, "I may not be at the house much. My work requires me to travel quite a bit."

"That's probably for the best. What's the name of the house again?"

"Fidele," he said. "It means 'steadfast.'"

"That's a good name." We both paused again. "I suppose we can talk more when I'm in New Orleans."

"Definitely. I -- I'm looking forward to seeing you again."

"Me too," I said, but rather than pursue that line of thought further I said, "Good night, Noel. Safe journey home."

"Good night, Malcolm Carmichael," he replied softly, his accent making my name sound like music, and we hung up.

***

A week after our meeting, the contract arrived, and I read it over with Mary Kate. It was straightforward in laying out the family's terms and expectations. I was to teach Caleb at least six hours a day except for days when he saw his therapist, which days would be for no less than three hours; I would have Saturday nights and Sundays off; I would have a room of my own at the plantation house Fidele; neither Noel Thibodeaux nor Caleb's grandfather Emmanuel Thibodeaux, nor any of the household staff, would interfere with Caleb's lessons unless they decided I was negligent; my salary for the term of one year, after which we would review Caleb's development as well as the contract and determine if it would be renewed or terminated.

There was also a clause that said if I left the position early due to an act of God or other circumstances that were not related to health or family issues, they would pay me the entire year's salary and provide references for my next position. If I left due to health or family issues, they would pay my salary through the end of the month and again, provide references.

Mary Kate tapped her finger on the page. "That's odd."

"I assume they mean if there's a hurricane or if the house burns down."

"It seems overly generous, though, don't you think? What 'other circumstances' could they mean?"

"I would say that if Caleb refuses to learn from me," I said. "Or if we just can't break through with him. Not negligence, anyway." Those terms were laid out in another section; if I was found to be negligent, I would be paid through the end of the month and dismissed without references. There was a long list of items they would use to determine negligence: if Caleb was not taught a certain number of hours a day, if he showed no progress, if Noel determined that I was not teaching him appropriate subjects, and so on.

"What if they mean," Mary Kate said slowly, "that you get too close to Noel?"

I didn't look up from the contract. "That's not going to happen."

"You won't get too close to him?"

"We discussed it and decided we like each other but we won't do anything about it." I smiled at her without humor. "Even homosexual men have some self-control."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not even thinking about that. There's a time-honored tradition of governesses falling for the guardian of their pupil."

"I'm not Jane Eyre," I replied and gathered up the pages of the contract.

"I know you liked him. I liked him too. He's very charming."

"I did like him," I said, picking up my fountain pen. "I suspect when we meet again, I'll like him still. But given everything else that's happened, giving in to that would be a disaster. I'm going to concentrate on the boy and help him as much as I can."

Mary Kate asked gently, "You're not still hung up on Oliver Davenport, are you?"

"No," I said. "He's... he's not a very nice man."

She laughed. "I could have told you that, and I've never even met him."

I smiled at her. Still, my mind was on the Thibodeaux family. "Do you think I should reject the offer?"

Mary Kate grew serious. "I... don't know. I don't feel you should refuse, but at the same time--" Her eyes met mine. "Be careful, Malcolm. Be careful."

"I will," I said. At the time I thought her warning was simply that of a concerned sister for her brother, particularly after losing one to war and nearly losing the other. Myself, I had no bad feelings about this position; I felt no dread or foreboding. I was excited to see a new part of the country, and to experience life with a new set of faces, particularly one as beautiful as Noel's. Even if I forbade myself to touch, I could still look.

I signed my name on both copies of the contract, dated them, and put one copy back into the envelope Noel's office had sent for return mail. The other copy was for me to keep, and I read it over again before I went to bed. The terms seemed simple to fill, so long as I did my part, and I intended to do so above and beyond the expectations set forth in the contract. I expected nothing but a year or two of teaching Caleb Thibodeaux, perhaps to prepare him for a prep school given his family background, and then I would seek another position and resume my life elsewhere.

In the morning, I put the thick envelope into a mail box. The agreement was made. I was committed. My fate was set.


	6. A Change of Scenery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> “My father wants to take Caleb away from me."

August was spent wrapping up my affairs in Chicago -- I said goodbye to the friends I'd made, gave notice at the summer school, visited the Art Institute one more time -- and preparing to move to my new home. Noel's secretary sent me a train ticket to New Orleans; in return, I sent a list of materials for the school room so that we would be prepared for every circumstance. As I planned out our lessons, though I hoped I could make use of the grounds rather than keep Caleb indoors, unless he was a sickly child and needed to be out of the sun.

I knew a little about my new city, as one of the men in my unit, Rene Gaspard, had been from New Orleans and spoke of it often. As soon as I could locate his address, I wrote to Rene to let him know I would be coming to the city and would like to see him if he had the time. His return letter arrived so quickly he must have written it the day mine arrived; he said that he would always have time for his old Sarge -- that I should come to dinner the first Sunday I was in Louisiana, in fact, so he could give me a proper welcome.

I had told Rene the name of the plantation where I would be, and asked if he knew anything about it, hoping for news about its distance from the city and if it was kept up for tourists or was a working farm. In his return letter, Rene said, _Fidele belongs to one of the oldest families in the parish -- in the state, even, I think. I know that for as long as there's been a Louisiana there have also been the Thibodeauxes. Their family has had a lot of tragedy. The death of young Caleb's parents is just another chapter. I'll tell you the whole story when you're here._

Some families, I reflected when I had read this, have histories full of humor and misadventure -- like my own family, to the point that holiday suppers were often two or three hours long because we spent so much time laughing over old stories -- but some families' histories were full of death and sorrow. The Thibodeauxes, it seemed, were the latter, and I felt for Caleb and Noel even more.

Another letter I wrote was to my father, to tell him of my new position. His reply was reticent: he wished me well, advised me to follow the teaching practices he and my mother had instilled in me, and hoped he would see me at Christmas.

The night before I was to leave, Mary Kate helped me pack. She still looked worried, but she only said, "I hope you find everything you're looking for, Mal."

"I'm just looking for a change of scenery," I replied. At the time, I thought it was true.

* * *

Before dawn the next morning, I boarded the train bound for New Orleans. It was a long journey, and a fascinating one given the changes of the landscape from Illinois to Louisiana. I drew, I read, I walked the aisle to ease the stiffness in my hip and knee, I talked to my fellow passengers, and I watched the country change from rolling green farmland to swamps and bayous as we plunged deeper and deeper into the south.

It was after ten o'clock when the train pulled into the station in New Orleans and we could disembark. The moment I stepped off the train I had to stop and inhale the scents of my new city. San Francisco smells like the sea and Chicago smells like burnt sugar, but New Orleans smells of reefer smoke, barbecue on the grill, freshly mown grass, jasmine.

I collected my trunk. Up and down the platform, other travelers were met by their families or by men in chauffeurs' uniforms. Noel had written he would meet me at the station, and so I looked for a familiar face or even a driver bearing a sign with my name on it. Seeing neither, I dragged my trunk to waiting room and used the pay phone to call the number for Fidele, to let them know I'd arrived.

Rather than ringing through, the line beeped twice and went silent.

I put in another nickel and dialed the number again, with the same result. This didn't bode well -- if the phone was disconnected, what sort of condition could the rest of the farm be in? And it meant I had no way to reach Noel, as I hadn't thought to ask for his work number, and there was nothing to do but sit myself down to wait.

Despite having my sketchbook out to pass the time, eventually I started to feel forlorn and forgotten. The platform had emptied quickly and this late, no trains were pulling in or out. All the other travelers had moved on to their final destinations, while I resigned myself to the notion to spending the night in the waiting room along with the drowsy ticket agent, or finding a hotel until I could get through to my new employers.

Before I had to enact this plan, however, to my relief the waiting room door opened to reveal Noel Thibodeaux. He was dressed less formally than he had been in Chicago -- jeans and work boots with a white dress shirt, its sleeves rolled up -- and looked disheveled and handsome, making my heart do a little jump of happiness at the sight of him. 

"Malcolm," he said, as he approached my bench. "Welcome to New Orleans."

"Noel," I said, unable to keep how glad I was to see him out of my voice, and got to my feet. "Hello."

"This is Willie," he said, gesturing to the older Black fellow at his elbow, and I offered my hand.

"Nice to meet you, Willie."

"Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Malcolm," the man replied. He gave me a quick handshake and hefted my trunk. I then had only my cane and knapsack to deal with, and before I could awkwardly swing the knapsack back on my shoulders Noel took it and carried it with the straps over his arm.

"This way." He kept his pace slow to match with mine, and we left the waiting room to go to a solid, pre-war, black Packard sedan in the station's parking lot. Noel opened the rear door for me and I got in, and he got into the other side of the seat while Willie loaded my trunk.

Noel said, almost shy, "It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you again too," I said, and then we fell silent as Willie got into the driver's seat.

"Slow route home, Mr. Noel?" he asked once he had started the engine.

"Yes, please, Willie," Noel said. He said to me, "I thought you might like to see some of the sights before we leave the city."

"Oh, yes," I said, eager at the prospect.

Willie started the drive from the business district to the prettier parts of the city, and as we went I said, "I tried to call the house to let you know I'd arrived, but I wasn't able to get through."

"That happens a lot, I'm afraid," Noel said. "It was only wired into the phone line a few years ago and it's never worked right. The phone company says its a problem on our end but I think they're just not willing to redo it."

"I see," I said, and let it drop as we approached streets of the French Quarter.

Once I'd had my fill of stately old houses behind garden walls or surrounded by oaks draped with Spanish moss, Willie drove us as close to Bourbon Street as we could get so I could see the neon signs of the legendary blues clubs. The streets were packed with tourists drinking in the many pleasures New Orleans has to offer, so Willie had to slow the Packard to a crawl.

One group in particular caught my attention as we crept along beside them. Like many tourists they were talking and laughing, but they were dressed more for hiking than dancing. Their guide carried an old-fashioned hurricane lamp as if he expected to be caught in the dark.

Noel snorted when I pointed them out. "That's a ghost tour," he said flatly. "They go to supposedly haunted houses and the tour guide tries to scare them with tales of voodoo and violence."

"Ghost tours," I murmured, and thought people who had actually seen ghosts would not seek them out for pleasure. "Some people will gawk at anything, I suppose."

"Most of the stories are just stories," Noel said. "But there are enough of them to be a nuisance. We get tourists who stop at Fidele to ask if they can sleep in our haunted rooms. Father sends them packing, of course. There are plenty of other old places that are willing to feed them a story of restless spirits in exchange for tourist money."

"Doesn't Fidele have any stories?" I said, smiling at him. "What restless spirits does it possess?"

To my surprise, neither Noel nor Willie answered at first, though their eyes met in the rear view mirror. Finally Noel said, "Any old house is going to collect a tale or two. Let's get out of the city, Willie."

"Yes, Mr. Noel," Willie replied, and as he took the first chance to turn away from the Quarter I leaned back in my seat and wondered at their response to what I had thought was an innocent question.

* * *

Compared to the neon of Bourbon Street, the darkness was absolute once we were out of the city and on the road through the bayou. It seemed to swallow everything except the glow of our headlights, and I fancied that the road was made of light, guiding us through the swamp.

After several quiet minutes through the dark, Willie turned the car onto another road and we passed through what appeared to be farmland, though the crops were nothing like pictures I had seen of cotton fields, even in the dark. I rolled down the window to get a better look, and Noel said, "We sold five hundred acres to the Louisiana Polytechnic Institute after the war. They're using it for their forestry department. What you're seeing right now is new growth forest."

"It smells wonderful," I said. "It reminds me of the mountains at home." 

"I thought San Francisco has hills, not mountains."

"The city itself has hills. My father used to take us camping in the Sierra Nevadas."

"I've never been camping," Noel said. "I've never slept out-of-doors aside from the war, which is hardly the same thing."

"It's great fun. I'll have to take you sometime." We gazed at each other a moment before we both looked away. I said, "What do you do with the rest of the farmland?"

"We're still a sugar cane farm," Noel said. "Simon hired a new manager just after the war and he's been bringing the farm into modern times. We're actually doing fairly well," he added in a tone of faint surprise. "The farm is paying for itself, anyway."

The road took us through the new forest, and then to an alley lined with cypress trees that had a good century or two on the trees behind us. At the end I could see the house itself, lights ablaze on the veranda. 

However, what should have been a welcoming sight gave me a shiver; with its darkened arches on the lowest level and the unlit windows in the upper floor, the house resembled a gaping maw, open to swallow us whole.

"My father is likely still awake," Noel said, his cool tone returned. "Caleb is in bed. You'll meet him in the morning."

"All right," I said. "Has he always lived at Fidele?"

"No," Noel said. "Simon and Grace lived in the city. They used to bring him here to visit Father sometimes, though."

"And you didn't live here, either, until Caleb came," I said.

"Not since I was eighteen. I'm leasing out my house for now." He paused, looking out the window. "I miss it."

The garage was a converted carriage house located to the side of the house, that still smelled of leather and oil. Noel guided me up the path to the big house, and let me pause to take it in before we climbed the main steps.

The brick path from the carriage house brought visitors to the side of the main house, where I could see both the front cypress-lined drive and the gardens behind. In the gardens, flowers and trees grew in brick planters, and there were cane benches built around oak trees. Beyond the garden walls was the bayou, glinting with fireflies and its trees rustling softly in the evening breeze.

The house itself was white stone, with flowers growing right up to the floors of the lower wall. Arches sheltered the entrances; we had to climb stone steps to reach the main doors and the veranda that surrounded the house. There were no columns like the plantations of my imagination, but there were several tall windows symmetrically placed in the walls and chimney stacks on each corner.

The odd feeling I had gotten from the house at first sight seemed ridiculous as we went through the arches and climbed the steps. The house was beautiful and well-kept, and I could see already where I could take Caleb to enjoy the sun and to study the plants and flowers. I supposed there was a dark history to the place as there was to any grand house in this part of the country, but I thought I understood the allure of the antebellum south, too, in the grace and beauty of the house and grounds.

I felt deeply for Noel. It could be no easy thing, trying to earn a living while keeping up one's gentility. It made me glad my family had no reputation like the Thibodeaux family did.

We were met at the front door by a tall Black woman in a shirtdress, her hair in slim braids and bound in an orderly bun, whose gaze swept over me as we came inside.

"Good evening, Mr. Noel."

"Good evening, Mrs. Bell," Noel said as he gave her my knapsack. "This is Malcolm Carmichael, Caleb's new tutor."

She gave me another scrutinizing look, as if she couldn't decide if I was a useless Yankee or not, and then said to Noel, "Mr. Emmanuel is waiting for you in his study. Caleb is in bed. Would you like supper tonight?"

"Yes, thank you, for both of us and Willie if he needs it," Noel said, and told Willie, "Take Mr. Carmichael's trunk to his room, please," and as they crossed the vestibule to take one of the staircases, said to me, "Let's get this over with," and started up another.

I hauled myself up with my hand on the banister and my cane, and took advantage of my slow pace to look around. The house was even grander on the inside. The vestibule went all the way up to the top floor, and each side of the house had its own mahogany staircase. The wood floors were polished to a shine, the wallpaper was a rich pattern in green and black, portraits hung on the walls in the vestibule and in the landings above, and halls led from the vestibule to the four wings of the house.

Noel said quietly as we climbed, his pace slowed to mine, "My father disagrees with my approach for raising Caleb, but since I'm Caleb's legal guardian the decisions ultimately rest with me. Don't take anything he says too seriously. "

"I'll try not to," I said, and Noel gave me another of his barely-there smiles as he led me down the passage to a book-lined study. 

He rapped on the open door with his knuckles. "Father, we're here."

An older gentleman in one of the wing chairs by the fireplace looked up from his newspaper. Emmanuel Thibodeaux also had the strong features his sons and grandson shared -- heavy brows, vivid blue eyes, square cheekbones -- though it appeared Simon and Noel had gotten their generous mouths from their mother. His look was neither kind nor welcoming, and I had no trouble believing the threat Noel had told me of would come from this man.

"Malcolm Carmichael, this is Emmanuel Thibodeaux," Noel said.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," I said, giving Emmanuel my friendliest smile. In return, he fixed a piercing look on me and gestured to the armchair opposite him.

"Have a seat, Carmichael." There was a fire in the hearth to fight the slight chill in the air. Still, it was far warmer than Chicago, and I took off my jacket before settling into the chair.

Noel went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a scotch. "Thirsty, Malcolm?"

"Scotch and soda, please," I said.

Emmanuel was still looking at me much the same way Mrs. Bell had, as if he couldn't make up his mind about me. "Where did you serve?" he said without preamble.

"European theater, in the 4th infantry division."

"Wounded at Normandy?"

"Hurtgen Forest," I said. "After the Battle of Paris."

"Hm," he said again, and gave Noel a stern look as Noel handed me my glass. "Now, that's a true soldier. You get out and you fight. You face the enemy head-on, like we did in the Great War."

Noel, standing by the fireplace with his drink, didn't as much as glance in his direction. "Head-on in the trenches, were you, Father?"

Pointing at Noel, Emmanuel said to me, "This one was an _engineer_. May as well have spent the war ordering paperclips."

I said quietly, "The Pioneer Troops did amazing things, Mr. Thibodeaux. We even heard of them in Europe. Given how Noel was honored, you should be aware of that."

Emmanuel harrumphed. Noel and I drank in silence.

Finally Emmanuel said, "And your people, Carmichael?"

I swallowed the sip I had taken. "My people?"

"Your parents. Grandparents, if you know who they are."

"Father," Noel said.

I rested the glass on my knee. "My great-grandparents came to the States from Scotland during the California Gold Rush, and founded a brewery which two of my uncles now run," I said evenly. "Glennfinnan whiskey is fairly popular in the Bay Area. I'd be happy to order a crate if you'd like to give it a try. Most of my family either work for the brewery or for themselves. Until they retired, my parents ran a progressive school where we had colored and immigrant students as well as whites, and openly discussed things like birth control and socialism in addition to the Three Rs. My older brother enlisted as a conscientious objector and was a medic in the Pacific theater. My younger brother was just a child during the war, and is now a senior at the University of California, San Francisco. Before she left to have a baby, my sister taught remedial studies at a lower-income school in Chicago. I'm actually the boring one -- I believe teaching children should involve less sitting at desks and more exploring the world around them. I also draw a comic book for fun."

I heard a soft sound from Noel, and when I glanced at him he had a hand curled in front of his mouth as if he were smothering a laugh. Emmanuel, on the other hand, was staring at me from beneath his furrowed brows.

"You hired him," he said to Noel. "If my grandson turns out to be a simpleton or a radical, I blame you."

"I think Caleb will be fine," Noel said quietly.

I wanted to reach out my hand and wrap it around his. I couldn't imagine what it was like to grow up in a house with a parent who despised you. Noel was a war hero and held a position of responsibility, but that didn't seem to matter to Emmanuel.

I said, "I've been able to reach troubled children before, and I've taught children who weren't troubled but who needed some extra time and care. Once I know where Caleb is in his development, I can give you a better understanding of what I hope to accomplish with him this year."

"It won't be necessary," Noel said before Emmanuel could speak. "As the contract said, we won't interfere as long as you're working with him."

"Thank you," I said.

"I know he's very excited to meet you," Noel added.

"I don't know how you can tell," Emmanuel said sharply. "The boy's mute."

"I know, Father," Noel said quietly. "But I can tell."

Emmanuel harrumphed. "This one," he pointed again at Noel, "is sending my grandson to a _psychiatrist_. In my day if a child misbehaved like this we'd take him behind the woodshed and beat him into speaking."

"He's five," Noel said, even quieter, his entire body as still and tense as a coiled spring. "No beatings."

I said, glancing from Noel to Emmanuel and back, "Noel mentioned Caleb is seeing a therapist, Mr. Thibodeaux. I think that's a wise decision, given the way he lost his parents."

Emmanuel harrumphed again, then waved a hand to me in dismissal. "Show Carmichael where he's to sleep. You've missed supper."

"Yes, sir," Noel said, and waited, his hands fisted in his trouser pockets, as I got myself to my feet.

Neither of us spoke as we thumped our way through the house back to the vestibule. "The nursery is that way," Noel said finally, pointing down the west wing. "Mrs. Bell sleeps in the room beside Caleb's. You are down here." He took me into the east wing, and opened the first door in the passage to a small but opulent room containing a four-poster bed and heavy walnut furniture, where Willie had left my trunk. The window looked out to the gardens and the river in the distance. I opened the window and leaned out to inhale the scents.

"It's beautiful," I told Noel.

"I suppose it is." He peered out the window over my shoulder, and my breath escaped me at his nearness. "I hardly notice it anymore. It's like the wallpaper."

"I like it." I looked at him over my shoulder. As much as I wanted to close my eyes and let my imagination run wild -- his hands on my hips, his lips grazing my ear, his body jerking short and sharp into mine -- I forced my eyes to stay open and my expression to stay friendly.

Noel's gaze fell to my lips, and there was a slight pause before he stepped away. "I'll get you when supper's ready." He gave me a nod and left my room.

I sat on the edge of the bed and scrubbed my face with my hands. The tension in the house was thicker than I had anticipated, and I wondered if Noel wanted another person as a buffer between himself and his father as much as he wanted a teacher for Caleb.

 _Focus on the boy,_ I thought, and that was enough to drive lustful thoughts away. During the war my unit had joshed me about how I would drop everything to help any child we came across -- and there were so many children in need over there, so many war orphans, so many who had known nothing but violence and want all of their short lives -- and the feeling hadn't stopped even while I dealt only with children of privilege who had never gone to bed hungry. Their problems had been different -- neglect from parents absorbed in their own lives, education that moved too fast or too slow for their needs, a strange and confusing world they had been thrust into too quickly by parents who thought children were only miniature adults -- but they were still children in need of comfort and acceptance, and I had done my best.

I rose and unlocked my trunk, and began to unpack my things. I hung my shirts and trousers in the wardrobe, and filled the bookcase with novels and sketchbooks. I could already imagine how I would draw my new household -- Mrs. Bell's severely beautiful features, Willie's lined face, Emmanuel's red cheeks and shrewd eyes, Noel's loveliness.

I had brought a collection of books for Caleb, too, which would go in the schoolroom. Primers for grammar and math, spellers, books on geography and science; and for fun, books that my brothers and I had liked as boys, stories of pirates and monsters and gods.

All that was for later, though. First I had to meet and win over my pupil. Caleb may have been excited to meet me like Noel said, but still he might be a shy child, or he might be a violent one, lashing out in his grief. He might hate me on sight. He might take some winning over for us to be friendly.

I was pondering the best way to introduce myself as I organized my books, when the door creaked. I looked up, expecting to see Noel, but while the door was ajar there was no one in the doorway. I looked out into the passage only to find it empty. I shrugged, thought old houses make noises all the time, shut the door again, and went back to the bookshelf.

Now, I was used to being looked at, even before the war. I was often the tallest man in the room, and since the war I also was a tall man who used a cane. I knew the feeling of eyes on me, of being examined and judged.

This feeling was as if someone were standing behind me and inspecting me from head to toe. The hairs on the back of my neck pricked. My skin felt hot, as if I were standing too close to a fire.

I turned abruptly, ready to confront whoever was making this inspection, but again -- no one. Not even a fluttering curtain.

There was a light tap on the door, which jarred me out of my confusion. I opened it and there was Noel. "Supper's ready, if you're hungry."

"Yes, please." I followed him downstairs to the kitchen, which was in the lowest level of the house. In previous centuries it had probably been a close and smoky room, but now it was cozy and modern, with a sleek icebox and gas stove, and a round wood table with a basket of biscuits in the center, nestled in a tea towel.

"There's always biscuits," Noel said, picking up one, and he bit into one before sitting down. The table was set for two; Mrs. Bell had made us ham and Swiss cheese sandwiches on crusty homemade bread, piled high with lettuce and sliced tomato, and poured us tall glasses of cold milk. Crisp red apples were cut into slices and piled on our plates, as well.

"I don't think I've ever had proper southern biscuits." I took one too. It was flaky and buttery, tasting of buttermilk, and melted on my tongue. "My mother was French," I said once I'd chewed and swallowed. "We usually had croissants for breakfast."

"Is that how you learned French? From your mother?"

" _Oui_ ," I said. "Do you speak it?"

" _Un peu_ ," he said. _A little._ We both picked up our sandwiches. "Creole French, anyway. I imagine it came in handy during the war."

"It did, once we landed at Normandy." We both ate. I said, "Has Mrs. Bell been your housekeeper long?"

"For as long as I can remember," Noel said. "My mother had a rough time when she was expecting us and Mrs. Bell was hired to look after her. She ended up raising us."

"She must have been very young."

"Seventeen, I think. Of course, she was just Miss Leila then. Mr. Bell came along later."

I frowned as I chewed my next bite. "Then your mother--"

"Passed away a few minutes after I was born." He picked up his glass. "Simon is -- was -- the eldest by an hour."

An _hour._ I didn't know much about childbirth but I knew enough that his previous statement made a terrible sort of sense. "I'm sorry," I said, and he nodded simply and had a long drink.

Mentioning my own mother again seemed cruel, even though she had passed away as well. I ate my sandwich, which Mrs. Bell had made perfectly, just the right amount of mayonnaise and mustard, savory ham, and fresh vegetables and Swiss cheese. My mother had given us high standards when it came to food -- army chow had been lower than what we served the family dog -- and I thought Mrs. Bell would have pleased her greatly, if the sandwiches and biscuits were anything to go by.

After a few more bites and drinks, Noel said, "I tried to outfit the schoolroom according to that list you sent, though if you're going to be outdoors most of the time I suppose it will mostly be a storage room."

"We'll use it when the weather's disagreeable."

"That may be frequently for the first few months. Hurricane season starts in October."

"I'll gear my lesson plans for indoors, then. Do you get hurricanes every year?"

"Not that often." He drank and then held the glass loosely in his fingers. "But we get rain if the heart of a storm itself is within a few hundred miles. Winters can be very stormy indeed, and the house was only wired for electricity after the war. It fails sometimes when the weather's bad, so we keep candles and matches in every room."

"I'll keep that in mind." We ate in silence for a few minutes more, then I made up my mind and said, "Oliver Davenport said you wanted to know if I believe in ghosts. I'm curious as to why."

Noel shrugged. "There are ghost stories all over the parish."

"I'm not going to run off and join a ghost tour company."

"No, I don't think you would." He fixed his gaze on me. " _Do_ you believe in ghosts, Malcolm?"

"I believe in things I can see," I replied. Our plates were bare by now, our glasses empty. "I'm still curious about why you want to know."

"Mostly I didn't want you filling Caleb's head with nonsense," Noel said. "Even if this city has a history of mysticism and magic, it's not something he needs to be exposed to, at least not at this age."

"I agree completely."

"I need him to feel safe," he said, which surprised me, but before I could inquire further he gathered our plates and took them to the shining new dishwasher. "Feel free to amuse yourself as you like tonight. There's a radio in the drawing room, if you like that sort of thing. I'll be in the library for a few hours more. Good night."

"Good night," I said, feeling dismissed; but I supposed since I was his employee the same way Willie and Mrs. Bell were, he had every right to dismiss me.

I went back to my room, not wanting the radio tonight. I had boarded the train at four a.m. and was weary from travel. Though it was still relatively early, I put on my pajamas and went to bed. Sleep came quickly.


	7. Caleb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> "Doesn't Fidele have any stories? What restless spirits does it possess?"

I woke myself with a gasp of "Zachary?" before I remembered the war was over and I was thousands of miles away from the forests of Germany.

Shaking, I sat on the edge of the bed and shoved my hands through my hair. The nightmares about my last moments in the war had finally started to taper off, but apparently being in a new place was enough to trigger them.

As I sat there, trying to calm my breathing and shaking hands, I noticed that my breath froze into vapor as if it were January. Goosebumps rose on my arms, my heart pounded -- I was so on edge that I whipped around and demanded, "Who's there?" when I heard a creak at the door.

No answer. Of course. No one was at my door.

I flipped on the lamp at my bedside. The light it gave was dim, patterned on the walls and ceiling from the punched tin of the lampshade, but still enough for me to see that the room was empty and the door was closed. Whatever presence I thought I felt had left as quickly as they had come. 

I got out of bed and tested the door. It creaked as it moved -- no one could have come into my room without making a noise. I tested the window as well -- it was closed, the sash locked, as it had been before I went to bed. The chill I had felt dissipated, and I muttered to myself about drafts and old houses as I got beneath the coverlet again.

I breathed slow and deep as I lay awake, reminding myself that there were no Germans with grenades and rifles in Louisiana. _Go back to sleep,_ I thought, _go back to sleep._

Through the stillness of the house, I heard the faint sound of a piano.

It was a ragtime melody I thought I may have heard in a bar during the war, sprightly and playful. It made me smile, and I thought it must be Noel, whiling his sleepless hours away with music.

Meaning to join him, I was pulling on my dressing gown when the music stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

I picked up my cane and left my room. There was no one in the hall. A grandfather clock ticked in a niche, telling me it was nearly three in the morning. I went to the vestibule and listened. All was quiet throughout the house -- the music had not woken Caleb or Mrs. Bell, it seemed. There was no sound from Emmanuel's wing of the house, as well.

My hands were still trembling from the nightmare. I made my way as quietly as I could -- which was, I admit, not very -- down the stairs, toward the kitchen. If there was one way my family preferred to deal with uncertainty, it was to make something -- preferably something good to eat.

I thought Noel would have gone back to bed, now that he was finished playing for the night, but as I passed the music room I saw him at the piano, softly caressing the keys. I paused, thinking he might not appreciate the interuption, but then said, "I liked the song."

He looked up, startled, and then his face went back into its usual neutral lines. "Did you?"

"I'm very fond of ragtime. Was that Scott Joplin."

"Mm," he said in an affirming sort of way. "I'm sorry it woke you."

I crossed the music room and sat beside him on the bench. The piano was a black grand, at least a hundred years old, with the name of the instrument-maker, Kimball, painted in gold on the fall above the keyboard. The finish and ebony keys were still glossy black; the only sign of age was the yellowing ivory of the white keys.

I placed my hands lightly on the keyboard. Beside me Noel slowly sighed. "Strange beds are always uncomfortable for the first few nights."

"Bad dream?"

Now I did press the keys, not in any kind of melody. "Yes."

"I still have them, too," he said conversationally. "I don't think they'll ever really go away."

"I usually make myself some warm milk to help me get back to sleep."

"Does that really work?"

"No," I said. "But it makes me feel better." I looked at him. "I'll make you some, if you want."

His stern face turned gentle. "I'd like that." We got up from the piano and he closed the cover, giving it a soft caress before we left the music room.

In the kitchen, I got a pan and a jug of milk, poured in enough milk for two servings and put the pan over the flame on the gas stove. Noel stood watching as if he were torn between offering to help and knowing I'd refuse, and trying to look casual about it.

As I stirred the milk with a wire whisk, I said, "What's keeping you awake tonight, Noel?"

"Oh, so many things," Noel replied. "How long can we keep the farm going when we're just breaking even? How long until my farm manager gets hired away by a larger outfit and I have to find another one? How am I going to fit in the travel hours I need this week and still be home in time to eat supper with Caleb? And what am I going to do to help Caleb? Am I doing too much, like Emmanuel thinks I am? Am I not doing enough? Was hiring you the right thing to do? Should he be in a special school or is it best to keep him here?" He gave me a hollow smile. "I have plenty to keep me awake."

I poured the now frothy, hot milk into mugs and handed him one. "Seems to me you're doing everything you can. Not just for Caleb -- for everyone. Granted, I've only been here a few hours, but it seems to me you're the one holding this place together."

Noel stared down at his mug. "Thanks," he said and had a long drink that probably burned his throat.

I said, after I'd had a few sips, "I did have a dream about the war tonight, but -- you know that feeling you get when someone's been in the room while you've been asleep?"

Noel's mug paused on its way to his lips, and he said "Yes," in a cautious tone.

"It felt like that when I woke up -- like someone had just stepped out of the room."

Noel drank, his eyes not meeting mine.

"And then the door creaked," I said. "As if someone wanted to come in without waking me, or they were just leaving, but the door never moved. It was the strangest thing."

"Very strange," Noel said and had another long drink. After another moment or two he said, "This is an old house. There are lots of strange noises and feelings and echoes. Best not to let them get to you."

"Does that work?" I said in my most innocent tone, and he laughed without any humor.

"No," he said in the same tone I had used earlier. "But it makes me feel better. Thanks for the milk." He put his empty mug in the sink.

Before he could leave the kitchen I said, "I'd love to listen to you play again sometime."

"Sometime, maybe." He left the kitchen.

I drank the rest of my own, slowly, as I listened to the house creak and settle around me. When I was finished, I washed out both mugs and put them in the drainer to dry, and went back upstairs, about as quietly as I had come down.

Lights off, my cane leaning against the night stand, I lay awake and listened for noises in the hall or the door to creak again. Aside from the occasional dull roar of wind through the bayou, the room was quiet. Any visitors who crept into my room hid themselves well.

* * *

In the morning, I rose in time to see Noel and Emmanuel leave for the city. Noel drove himself in a sleek Jaguar convertible; Willie drove Emmanuel in the black Packard. There was a Ford truck in the carriage house as well, for household use.

About the same time, the two young men who tended the gardens arrived, as did two young women who helped Mrs. Bell keep house. I later learned they were all relatives of Willie's; the girls were his daughter and niece, the boys both his nephews. Keeping up Fidele was quite a family affair.

I could hear the distant rumble of machinery in the sugar cane fields, and I assumed the forestry students were tending the baby trees. The plantation may have seemed sleepy and quiet, but it was busy from dawn until dusk.

Following the scent of fresh buttermilk biscuits, I went to the kitchen. Mrs. Bell was bustling around the kitchen, and at the round table sat a little boy.

Mrs. Bell saw me and said to the boy, "Caleb, your teacher is here."

Caleb put down his spoon and turned in his chair to look at me. As I had seen in the picture Noel carried, he had the Thibodeaux vivid blue eyes and wide cheekbones, and curly chestnut hair. He was tall for his age, and neatly dressed in short pants, a plaid short-sleeved button-down shirt, and sneakers. He had been eating hot cereal from a bowl, and there was a glass of half-drunk orange juice on the table.

"Hello, Caleb," I said and crossed the kitchen to join him. As I pulled over a chair for myself, Caleb watched me warily. "You can call me Malcolm. I'm here to help you learn your letters and numbers, and we'll read a lot of books and study things like the animals in the bayou and the stars. How does that sound to you?"

Hesitantly, he nodded, and then looked at Mrs. Bell.

"Finish your breakfast, Caleb," she said. "There are children starving in China."

Caleb picked up his spoon again and began to eat.

"What would you like for breakfast, Mr. Carmichael?" Mrs. Bell asked me in a formal tone. Her approval was still forthcoming, I supposed.

"I can make it myself. I don't mind."

"Nonsense," she said. "There's grits in the pot, and the biscuits are fresh."

"I'd love some grits," I said, though I had no idea what they were, and helped myself to the biscuits and apricot jam. There was a basket of fresh fruit on the table so I peeled an orange and divided it into sections to eat with my cereal.

Mrs. Bell placed a bowl of hot cereal on the table in front of me. She gave me a mild look, and her thoughts weren't hard to discern -- what would a Yankee like me know about Southern food?

I refrained from pointing out that I was from California, not the north, and picked up my spoon to have a taste. The cereal was hot and creamy, but bland in flavor, like unsalted popcorn.

Across the table, Caleb watched me with his spoon in his hand. As Mrs. Bell turned back to the dishwasher -- scrubbing the bowls diligently before she put them in the machine, which told me she didn't trust this newfangled device to get her kitchen clean -- I leaned closer to him and whispered, "What makes this taste better, Caleb?"

He studied me a moment, and pushed the sugar bowl toward me, and then the butter dish. "Thank you," I said, and loaded my cereal with butter and sugar. He was right -- the taste was much improved.

He smiled at me shyly, and then his eyes fell on my cane. He gave it poke, and it slipped off the chair and landed on the floor with a clatter.

Mrs. Bell whirled. "Leave that alone, Caleb! Mr. Carmichael needs it to walk."

Caleb shrank away. I stooped to pick up the cane again, and told her, "It's all right. It's better to answer his questions than to let him wonder and be afraid." I hung the cane on the table between myself and Caleb. "This helps me walk. I was hurt during the war and now my right leg doesn't work very well anymore."

He looked under the table, and I stretched out my leg. "We're going to do a lot of things outside," I said. "I'll need you to be patient with me sometimes."

Caleb touched my kneecap, as lightly as a butterfly landing, and then looked up at me and nodded with a tiny, shy smile.

"Okay," I said and picked up my spoon again. "Let's finish breakfast and then we can get started."

Caleb picked up his spoon too, and we both finished our breakfast.

* * *

Breakfast eaten and our teeth cleaned, Caleb and I left the house and went into the gardens. We followed the brick paths to a wall with a stile, and over the wall was a field that had been allowed to rest for the season and where wild flowers peeped between the clumps of tall grass.

We passed the two young gardeners, who had removed their shirts despite the autumn morning chill. Their skin was rich and deep in the sunshine, and they bade us a cheerful good morning as one of the men pushed a mower across the grass and the other dug weeds from the flower beds.

I carried my supplies for the morning in a knapsack, and when we reached the field I spread out a picnic blanket which we settled on to begin lessons. Using drawing paper and crayons, I tested first his knowledge of colors and shapes, and then letters and numbers with flash cards and a First Reader.

Caleb knew all of the basic shapes -- circle, square, triangle, and rectangle -- and the colors of his crayons. He was able to count to twenty by picking out the correct numbers from the flash cards, and he recited the alphabet the same way. He knew how to spell his first name, crayon clasped tightly in his hand, though I had to help him with his surname. He could recognize basic animals, food, and vehicles, and when I gave him a little book about the planets he pored over the pages and turned back to the frontispiece to trace the map of the solar system with his fingers.

Whatever other problems Caleb was dealing with, he was a clever boy, hungry for knowledge. His choice not to speak, or his need not to speak, had nothing to do with the actual potential of his mind. I suspected we would go through all the materials I had brought before the year was done.

But since it was the first day and he had only attended preschool for a few months before the fire, once I had determined what he knew and what to focus on to my satisfaction I gave him the crayons and blank paper and asked him to draw whatever he liked, and then took out my sketchbook and began to draw with the crayons, too.

The trees at the edge of the field rustled and the river flowed, the bees buzzed and the dull roar of machinery continued, both from the lawns and the fields. It was remarkably peaceful.

When the sun was high overhead, I packed up all of our supplies and we walked back to the big house. Caleb held my hand. So far during the morning he had been obedient, even docile, but his footsteps began to drag as we came closer to the house until finally he stood stock-still, his feet planted solidly on the path.

"Aren't you hungry, Caleb?" I said, looking down at him. He looked back up at me, his hand trembling in mine, and his lower lip quivered.

I hunkered down to his level as best I could, and he looked at me with solemn eyes. "I know it's nice to be outside, but Mrs. Bell is expecting us for lunch."

He looked down at his feet and shook his head.

I said gently, "Why don't you want to go into the house, Caleb?"

He covered his face with his hands. My heart ached for him, and I wondered if his grandfather had already taken to telling him that boys don't cry. 

I murmured, "Sh, sh, Caleb," and put an arm around him. He buried his face in my neck. I rubbed his back and said, "I know you miss your mama and daddy. But Grandfather Emmanuel and Uncle Noel, and Willie and Mrs. Bell and me, everybody in the house, we all want to take care of you now, the way they would. I know this is a big old house and there aren't other children to play with, but it's a pretty house, isn't it? With all kinds of places to explore? And I'll play with you, Caleb. I'm here to do that, too."

He wrapped his arms around my neck and clung to me tight. It made me wonder if the rest of the household were stingy with their hugs, and so I stayed crouched down and hugged Caleb back.

No more lessons that day. Instead we had lunch -- tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, prepared by Mrs. Bell -- on one of the side verandas, and after we ate we went to a big garden swing under the oak trees, where I read to him from one of the books from schoolroom -- _The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe_ \-- and Willie brought us lemonade in the mid-afternoon.

Some time in the second chapter, Caleb fell asleep leaning against my side. As he slept -- snoring lightly like a puppy -- I rocked the swing with one foot and watched the trees sway in the breeze as the other sounds of the plantation began to fade.

As the afternoon grew cooler, Mrs. Bell came out with a light knitted throw, which she lay over both of us.

"Thank you," I said, surprised, and she nodded shortly as she gathered the glasses and pitcher.

"I don't know what to make of you, Mr. Carmichael," she said, "but you seem to be what you say you are. That's a rare thing."

"It seems to me everyone in this house is exactly what they appear to be."

She huffed wryly. "Mr. Noel and Mr. Emmanuel are trying very hard to keep up appearances. They'll show you their true colors soon enough."

"Would you like to sit for a spell and tell me about it?"

She glanced back at the house, and then sat on the swing. "I suppose Mr. Noel told you about how his mother passed."

"He said she died after giving birth to him and his twin."

She nodded. "Mr. Emmanuel blames him for it. Miss Fabienne was alive after Mr. Simon, and dead after Mr. Noel. Mr. Emmanuel was ... not good to Mr. Noel, for a long time." She gave me a significant look, and I nodded, not needing her to spell it out.

Mrs. Bell went on, "I thought we'd never see Mr. Noel again after he left home, but he and Mr. Simon -- well, you never saw brothers so devoted. I think it would have broken Mr. Simon's heart if Mr. Noel disowned the family, and of course Mr. Noel would never do anything to hurt Mr. Simon. I think that's the only reason Mr. Noel and Mr. Emmanuel even speak now, because Mr. Simon made sure they did. For years, they were only in the same room at Christmas dinner. Mr. Noel would even only come to his mother's grave on All Saints Day when he knew his father had already been in gone."

"If they hate each other so much, why did Noel bring Caleb here to live? Isn't Noel Caleb's legal guardian?"

She waved a hand. "That's more than I know. I do know Mr. Emmanuel threatened to raise a fuss if Mr. Noel didn't bring Caleb to live at Fidele. There are things at about Mr. Noel that Mr. Emmanuel could use to ruin his reputation, if not worse."

I murmured, "He mentioned that," and looked down at Caleb as he snuggled deeper into my side. 

"For all his faults, Mr. Noel loves his nephew. He would have done anything for Mr. Simon, and he'll do anything for Caleb." She ran her hand over Caleb's dark hair. "Poor little lamb." She looked at me and said fiercely, "He's not simple."

"Definitely not," I said. "He's very intelligent. I think the most important thing now is to keep his mind active until he feels like talking again."

Mrs. Bell gave a short nod, and then rose from the swing. "I need to start supper. Mr. Emmanuel gets cranky if he doesn't eat right at six-thirty, whether Mr. Noel is home or not."

"Will you send Willie? We ought to get Caleb inside and I can't carry him."

"I'll send Willie," she said, and indeed a few minutes later Willie came from the house and tenderly scooped up Caleb to carry him to the nursery.

* * *

Now that I had a better idea of Caleb's education so far, I brought out my lesson plans and textbooks and began to reorder them, to build up his knowledge in some areas and put off things that were too complex for him for a while. We would study the planets and the stars soon, for example, since they interested him so much. Many children his age liked the universe, just like some liked dinosaurs and others liked the ocean, so I had resources that were on his level.

The desk in my bedroom was too small for me to work at it properly -- it was meant for writing letters, not something that involved having several books open at once -- so I packed my materials in my knapsack and took them to the library to work.

The library was a magnificent room. It opened right onto the vestibule, and took up half of east wing of the second floor. It had two tall windows at the opposite end of the room from the doors that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, with a view of the front lawn and the avenue of cypresses. Between the two windows was a fireplace, and there were two wing chairs on either side. Down the center of the room was a long table with reading lamps every few feet. Rolling ladders enabled a reader to view the books on the top shelves.

The dominant feature of the room was an enormous Bible on a rotating stand. It was leather-bound and at least three feet in height, a French translation of the Catholic Bible that included the apocryphal books left out of the King James. There were color plates printed throughout for particularly significant events like Moses smashing the first tablets or the women finding the empty tomb. The pages were fragile, though, so I didn't leaf through them much. It was open to its most interesting feature, anyway: a ten-generation family tree in the front of the book, with the founder of the Thibodeaux family, Achille, at the top and the most recent entry, Caleb, at the bottom.

The family record was surprisingly sparse. The Thibodeaux family was not a prolific one: they had one or two children per generation, no more. Branches off the main line ended after a generation or two. Unlike mine, they were not sprawling family at all.

I traced the line with my fingertip hovering over the page. Achille and Charlotte, Maxim and Lucie, Raphael and Eugenie -- down to Emmanuel and his wife, poor doomed Fabienne. Then came Simon and Noel's birth on Christmas Day, 1918; Simon and Grace's marriage in 1945, and finally Caleb, born August 18, 1946.

Six months after the event, Simon and Grace's death date had not been written into the Bible. I didn't blame either Emmanuel or Noel for that -- writing "My brother is dead," was one the hardest things I've had to do, myself.

I left the Bible and set up my own materials on the center table. It reminded me of the study tables in the library at UC Berkeley, and I wished for a moment I had a study companion to make the long hours of reading and note-taking a little more entertaining.

I only allowed myself that longing for a moment or two, and then I focused on the lesson plans. Soon I was absorbed in making up spelling lists, drawing visual aids for addition and subtraction, and making vocabulary pages with pictures and the words in both English and French written in my neatest hand.

Abruptly the door swung open. "Malcolm," said Noel, "what are you doing, sitting in the dark?"

The sun had sunk low without my noticing, and I had neglected to turn on any lamps or light a candle. I started to gather my things. "Making better lesson plans, now that I know what Caleb has learned so far. I thought you would be working late tonight."

"Not tonight," Noel said and came to the table to help me stack the books. "I wanted to hear how you and Caleb got on."

"Quite well," I said and told him what we'd covered so far, up to lunchtime.

Then I paused, and said, "When we got back to the house, he didn't want to come inside, so we spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden until his nap time."

"He didn't want to come inside? Could you figure out why?"

We were in the school room by this time, putting the textbooks on the shelf, and I concentrated on that for a moment or two. "He couldn't tell me, of course. I suspect it was because he's lonely and unhappy. I tried to reassure him we're all going to look after him now."

Noel sighed and leaned his head against the shelf, his hand hanging from it by the fingertips. I put a tentative hand on his shoulder, wanting to comfort him, but then he straightened up and lifted his head, and I let my hand drop. "If he had any other family, he'd be better off with them," he said quietly. "But Grace's parents have passed, her only sister is a widow with four children of her own to look after, and Father refuses to accept that this old pile is no place for a child."

"You grew up here," I said.

"I was miserable until I was sent away to school, and even then I had to come home on holidays if I wanted to see my brother." He sighed. "I'm glad Caleb likes you, anyway. That's a good start. Tomorrow morning he sees his psychologist, so no lessons until after lunch. He'll come into the city with me in the morning and Willie will bring him home afterward."

"All right," I said.

We were standing close to each other at the bookcase. Even weary from the end of a long day after little sleep, Noel was a gorgeous creature, those intelligent eyes fixed on me, his jaw dark with his evening beard. His cologne -- or so I assumed, because I could think of no other way he could have this scent -- smelled of the ocean, salty and clean, and I longed to bury my face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in.

We both stepped back at the same time. "Supper will be ready soon," he said and I said, "I have some reading I want to do," and he left the schoolroom. I went to my own room and sat on the edge of the bed, and then lay on my back and allowed myself to daydream of holding that strong body, kissing those red lips, for exactly five minutes before it was time to go downstairs.

* * *

Supper was eaten in the dining room. The table was far too large for four people, but thankfully I was seated beside Caleb, and was able to cut his ham and encourage him to drink his milk. 

Caleb kept his eyes downcast as he ate at first, until I decided to break the silence. "Caleb, shall we tell Grandfather what we studied today?"

Caleb looked up, uncertain yet hopeful, as Emmanuel's brows furrowed.

I said, "We talked about colors and shapes, and saw how high Caleb can count and how many letters he knows, and we talked about the planets. Then we read a book about a magical land you get to through a wardrobe."

"Caleb has always liked fairy tales," Noel said, but Emmanuel only grunted.

"I've got a book that’s a collection from the Brothers Grimm," I said. "We'll have to read it, too, when we're done with Narnia. But I think Caleb liked my book about the solar system most."

Caleb nodded eagerly.

"You did?" Noel said to him. "Is that something you want to learn more about, Caleb? The stars and the planets?"

Caleb nodded even more eagerly and Noel smiled a little.

"Well," he said, "let's see what we can do to help with that."

After that, Noel and I talked about the books we'd enjoyed as boys, with Caleb contributing with nods. Emmanuel only looked at us from under his brows, but I caught Noel smothering a smile a time or two.

After supper, Caleb was allowed to listen to the radio for half an hour, and then Mrs. Bell took him for his bath and bedtime. Emmanuel shut himself in his study as soon as his coffee cup was empty; while Noel kept us company during the radio program, as soon as Caleb was upstairs he, too, faded down a hall.

With Caleb put to bed and lesson plans finished, the rest of the evening was my own to do as I pleased. The writing desk in my room was just the right slope to use as a drafting table, and so I set up a sketchbook and my pencils, moved one of the lamps closer to the desk, and began to contemplate the continuing adventures of my Crusader knight. So far Sir Errant had been hired to slay a dragon who turned out not to be as dangerous as the townspeople thought, rescued and fallen in love with a captive prince, and teamed up with a band of misfits like the group of pilgrims from _The Canterbury Tales_. Their stories as he escorted them to Paris so they could worship at Notre Dame (and sell their wares at the market outside the cathedral) had given me a year's worth of material, and like the pilgrims to Canterbury I had them tell everything from animal fables to tales of war.

I had finished that adventure over the summer, and since then I had been casting about for another experience for Sir Errant. Tonight I began idly sketching a suit of armor. Perhaps I needed a Galahad to my Don Quixote, I thought, and drew a most perfect knight, stalwart and steadfast, handsome and strong.

It wasn't until I put my pencil down that I realized this paragon looked just like Noel. I picked up my eraser, thinking I would change his features -- narrow his eyes, perhaps, or give him a grimmer mouth -- and then put it down again. No one would see this, anyway; it was for my own amusement, to keep my fingers and my mind limber.

I scribbled "Companion for Sir Errant" on the page and decided I would find his name and his story later. I stretched my arms, and got my cane so I could walk a little to stretch my hip. I had taken off my shoes -- we had been barefoot children, and I never liked to wear shoes when I didn't have to -- so I sat in the armchair to put them back on.

I looked up from tying one sneaker when I saw Noel walking past my door. He had changed clothes since supper -- a slouchy, dark red, V-neck sweater and wrinkled khaki pants -- and didn't even glance in to say hello.

I supposed that wasn't unusual. He was not a warm person, we didn't know each other well, and he had such a heavy burden on his mind that it probably wouldn't occur to him to say anything in passing.

Well, it wasn't important. I finished putting on my shoes and picked up my cane, and went downstairs to walk through the garden and perhaps grab something to drink before bed.

As I went past the library, I saw that lamps were burning inside -- and to my surprise I saw Noel at the long table, lamps gathered around him as he studied topography maps and made notes on a yellow legal pad.

"Didn't you just go upstairs?" I said.

Noel looked up. He still wore the same white dress shirt he had worn all day with his jeans, the first few buttons undone, and his jacket and tie were folded neatly on the table beyond his books. His hair framed his face, the sides long enough to hang over his reading glasses.

I always thought he looked handsome, of course, but I found studious Noel to be very attractive indeed -- the little silver rims of the glasses, his hair mussed from him running his hand through it, the rakish undone buttons.

He said as I ate him up with my eyes, "I've been down here all evening. What have you been up to?"

"Remember that comic I mentioned to Emmanuel?" I said, and he nodded. "I was working on that."

"Comics," he murmured with a slight smile. "I wasn't sure if you were serious or not."

"I was completely serious." I hesitated. He probably wanted to get back to work, but I didn't want to leave him quite yet. "I was about to go for my evening constitutional. Care to join me?"

He gestured to the maps. "Too much to do."

"All right. Good night."

"Enjoy yourself," he said absently, bending his head over his maps again.

I puzzled over this during my walk. It wasn't the first time I had been so lost in my own creation that it seemed to manifest in the real world. Though why my new character looked like a suburban father on a lazy Sunday instead of a knight, I chose not to examine closely.

The moon was high enough and the evening mild enough that I ventured beyond the brick paths to poke around the edges of the garden. There was no formal delineation between the gardens and the forest; the pavers merely became sporadic, until they disappeared entirely and the path was only well-trodden earth between the trees.

I almost followed it deeper, but I had no light with me aside from my cigarette lighter, and the thought of stumbling into the swamp made me shudder. I went back to the house.

I could see lights still flickering in the library, and so once I was inside I peeped in, curious. Noel was blowing out candles, his reading glasses tucked away in his shirt pocket, and saw me in the doorway. "How was your walk?"

"Relaxing," I said. "How was your night?"

"Productive," he said. "What's your comic about?"

We climbed the stairs, Noel's pace slow as he waited for me to hitch myself along. "It's a self-indulgent thing," I said. "A story I began while I was in the VA hospital, to keep myself from going spare from boredom -- a sort of Don Quixote story where the dragons are real, but not dangerous."

"That sounds interesting," Noel said when we reached the top of the stairs. "Would you let me read it sometime?"

"Sometime," I said. I hadn't shown it to anyone, not even Mary Kate, but I suspected Noel would understand it better than anyone else of my acquaintance.

"I'd like that," Noel said and gave me one of his little smiles, the kind that are mostly in the eyes.

We were standing in the vestibule, where the different wings of the house met, when we heard a door slam open and Caleb flew out of his room. He came to an abrupt stop in front of us, slipping a little on the smooth wood, and stared up at Noel.

"Caleb?" Noel said and picked him up. "What are you doing out of bed? Did you have a bad dream?"

Caleb lowered his head, and then shook it. _No._

"Would you like me to tuck you in?"

Caleb shrugged.

"Let's get you back into bed," Noel said and carried Caleb back to his room. I followed along, feeling it would be impolite somehow if I went to my own room before Caleb was safe in his own bed.

When Noel had tucked Caleb in, he said, "Would you like me to stay with you until you fall asleep?"

Caleb gave another indifferent shrug, his eyes focused elsewhere than on Noel's, as if the sight of his father's twin gave him no comfort. It seemed to me that it had the opposite effect.

I went to Noel and put my hand on his shoulder. I said to Caleb, "You heard your uncle's voice and you thought it was your daddy?"

Caleb curled tighter into himself, then nodded, one shoulder drawing up.

"You must miss your daddy a lot," I murmured.

He shrugged again, then slowly nodded, his face crumpling.

"Oh, peanut," Noel murmured, "so do I," and gathered Caleb up so that the boy could weep against his shoulder. His own face bore a deep grief that I understood all too well.

When they both had regained their composure, Noel said, wiping tears from Caleb's face, "How about I tell you some stories about the mischief your daddy and I used to get into when we were little? Would you like that?"

Caleb nodded, hugged Noel, and kissed him quickly. Noel kissed him back and lay him down.

"Tomorrow night, though, okay? It's very late. You should be asleep."

Caleb nodded, though his expression was reluctant, and let Noel tuck the covers around him. Noel stroked his hair and whispered, "I love you, Caleb," and we left, with Caleb's night light on in case he got up again in the night.

In the passage outside Caleb's room, Noel leaned against the wall and looked at me. "What a strange day this has been."

"What can I do to help?"

He looked at me with so much longing that I took a step towards him. I know I had sworn, to myself, to Noel, to Mary Kate, that I wouldn't touch him, but the words escaped me nonetheless.

"Say it."

He clenched his jaw and looked away.

I took another step towards him, closing the gap between us. "Noel. We both want it. Say it."

"I can't," he whispered even as I leaned into him, my hands pressed against the wall on either side of his head. "I want you so much I don't know how to go through another day without touching you. But, Malcolm, I _can't_."

"You can." I let my lips graze his. He shivered.

"I can't. I don't want to give Emmanuel any fodder for fighting me for Caleb's custody."

That should have brought me up short, I know, but I was so desperate with lust I said, "He doesn't have to know," as my lips lingered over his.

"Malcolm, stop." He put his hands on my chest. "It's more complicated than you realize."

"It seems pretty simple from where I’m standing."

He removed my hands, and then kissed the insides of my wrists. I inhaled, trembling, and he let me go and handed me my cane.

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you, so just trust me. You and I are a bad idea from start to finish."

I started to speak, but Noel laid his fingers over my lips. "Good night, Malcolm," he said and stepped away, to go into his own room and close the door.

I watched him go, and then went to my room and sat at the writing desk, opened my sketchbook to a fresh page and wrote him a note, letting the words flow as they wished.

_"Noel,_

_I didn't take this job to sleep with you. I took this job because I was intrigued with Caleb's story and wanted to help him. But you are beautiful and I want you. I like you. I want to be with you any way you'll let me. And any time you want to kiss me, I'll let you._

_Malcolm."_

I folded the paper over, wrote his name on the outside, went to Noel's room, and slipped the note under the door. I went back to my own room and got into bed, and lay awake for a long time, listening for footsteps.

No one came down the hall, not even a figment of my imagination.


	8. the Gaspards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> _I want to be with you any way you'll let me. And any time you want to kiss me, I'll let you._

The house cleared out early the next morning: Noel with Caleb to take him to therapy, Emmanuel into the city and driven by Willie. There were no papers for me to correct or tests to grade, of course, so I said to Mrs. Bell, "Teach me to make biscuits?" and after she gave me a thoughtful look, she agreed.

Learning to make biscuits, proper biscuits that baked up light and flaky, took most of the morning. I offered to teach her a dish that I knew, but she laughed and patted my arm, as if to say no Northern boy could have anything to teach her.

With the biscuits in the oven, I was left to my own devices again. I decided to work on my comic, and took my sketchbook to the library. I sat at the study table, my view the wall of books opposite, organized by the color of the leather bindings as many great home libraries were.

Out of curiosity, I left my sketchbook and climbed the rolling ladder a step, just to see the titles that weren't easily visible from the ground. I found Balzac novels in original French, Dickens in both English and French, a first edition of Victor Hugo. I pulled the ladder along the track idly, curious about what other novels Thibodeauxes of years past had deemed worth keeping. There were more books in Latin and German as I went along, everything from Caesar's _Commentaries on the Gallic Wars_ to _The Sorrows of Young Werther_ by Goethe. They were a family of readers, it seemed, and that gave me hope for Caleb's educational prospects.

As I replaced a copy of Ovid on the shelf, I heard a rustling sort of thump, and saw that one of the books had fallen to the floor. It must have been placed on the shelf precariously, and my rolling around on the ladder must have dislodged it. I climbed down from the ladder and picked up the book to put it away, but first took a few minutes to look it over. 

It was small volume compared to my own sketchbook, about the size to fit in a roomy pocket, plainly bound in brown leather with no indication of a title on the front cover or the spine. On the frontispiece were lines to note the dates -- which were 1731-1745 -- and the owner, Achille Thibodeaux.

As I paged through it, I realized it was a ledger -- an accounts book of sorts, recorded purchases and sales in increasingly large amounts as the plantation began to sustain itself, starting with the purchase of the land itself and the materials to build the house. I had little experience reading eighteenth-century French, much less in reading eighteenth-century handwriting, but this turned out to be an accounts book and not heavier fare. I knew the words for things like cotton and eggs and sugar, of course, and I would come to recognize words like hectare, auction, and overseer.

I started to put the book back in its place, but then paused. It might give me some insights into the history of the plantation and of the family. Granted, it wasn't the same as finding a diary or a cache of letters, but I thought it might still answer some of the many questions I had about the Thibodeaux family and the history of Fidele.

Before I could read further, I heard Willie pull up in the Packard, and looked out the window toward the carriage house to see Caleb walking with Willie to the house. Caleb looked gloomy, and dragged his feet even though he held Willie's hand.

I put my own things aside and went out to meet them. "Caleb, Willie," I said and stooped down, leaning on my cane, so I could speak to Caleb directly. "Wait until you see what Mrs. Bell and I made for lunch. I made biscuits! And they're even edible!"

As I hoped, that got a smile from Caleb, even if it was just a small one. I rose and ruffled his hair, and Willie took him inside.

Proper lessons began that afternoon. We worked on writing numbers and letters, and went over the first few French vocabulary words. After his nap we read another chapter from _The Lion, a The Witch, and The Wardrobe_ , and then a geometry lesson -- by which I mean we got his marbles and played Ringer in the garden until Emmanuel and Noel came home.

Caleb was indifferent to Emmanuel, but as soon as he heard the smooth purr of Noel's Jaguar on the drive, Caleb was antsy to meet him. I kept him out of the carriage house until Noel had safely parked and turned off the engine, and then he ran to Noel and Noel swung him up into his arms. Caleb put an arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. "Did you have a good day with Mr. Malcolm, Caleb?" Noel asked him, and Caleb nodded vigorously. "Good, because I have something for you after supper." Caleb's eyes grew big and he wiggled eagerly, and Noel laughed. "After supper, peanut. Go and wash your hands." He put Caleb down and Caleb ran into the house ahead of us.

Noel lingered to wait for me. "How has he been today?"

"A bit sad after his therapy session," I said and we began the slow climb up the stairs. "But I think I distracted him afterward. He does fine once he focuses on his lessons again. Do you meet with his therapist at all?"

"I pick him up afterward," Noel said. "I usually have a word with her about what they covered. He doesn't speak to her, either, but he draws pictures, and she watches him play with the toys she has in the office." He paused. "He doesn't draw pictures of the fire."

"Does he trust her?" I said, and Noel looked at me with his brows drawn.

"I hope so. I never thought about it."

Supper that night was beef pot pie, its gravy fragrant with rosemary, and I added this to my mental list for future cooking lessons. Again the meal was mostly silent until I told them what Caleb and I had done that day, and that got Noel talking a little bit, too.

Willie had brought us our coffee and Caleb another glass of milk when Noel said, "Willie, will you bring in the package I brought home?"

Willie smiled and said, "Right away, Mr. Noel," and went to fetch it. Caleb wiggled in his chair until Emmanuel cleared his throat meaningfully, and then Caleb pressed his lips together and gave me a sidelong look. I gave him a sidelong look right back.

Willie returned with a box wrapped in brown paper, which Noel took and gave to Caleb. "This is to help you look at the stars, peanut," he told Caleb, and Caleb's eyes grew enormous before he started ripping off the paper.

"You're spoiling the boy," Emmanuel said.

"Somebody has to," Noel replied, not looking at him.

Caleb tore off the paper and opened the box to find a small toy telescope. His mouth formed a silent "O" and he looked at Noel with shining eyes. Noel smiled in return, genuine.

"I'm glad you like it," he said. He looked at me. "I hope it fits into your lesson plans."

"It fits," I said and leaned my chin on my hand to watch Noel and Caleb unpack the telescope and figure out how to put it together. It was small and simple, with a limited range which meant we wouldn't discover any new planets; but given the reverent way Caleb held the telescope and silently begged to take it outside that very night, it didn't need to see all the way to Jupiter to be perfect.

The three of us took the telescope to the garden, away from the lights of the house, and set it up on one of the small wrought-iron garden tables. Noel stood close to me as I brought it into focus. "It'll be easier to find planets in the early morning, just before sunup," I said, keeping my gaze focused on the deep field of dark blue as I caught a whiff of the ocean-water scent of him. "But there are plenty of stars out. I'll find the Big Dipper."

"That sounds like a good start," Noel said, putting a hand on my back, and then he hastily removed it. "Here, Caleb, let me boost you up."

Caleb held up his arms. Noel picked him up and held him so that he could peer into the eyepiece. I held the telescope still for him and said, "The Big Dipper is part of a bigger constellation called Ursa Major, which means 'big bear'. Do you see the bear, Caleb?"

We gazed at stars and talked about their stories until Caleb was yawning, awake past his bedtime. Noel carried him inside and I followed with the telescope under my arm. I put the telescope in the school room, and by the time I was done with that Mrs. Bell was giving Caleb his bath.

Another day finished. It had been a quiet one, and I hadn't heard or seen a strange thing the entire day. I reflected that the noises I thought I heard, the feeling of being watched, were due to me being spooked by the history in the place and the atmosphere of the city.

It still felt early. I sat in the window-seat in the school room and looked out at the gardens as the wind blew softly through the trees, making them gently sway.

Silently, Noel joined me on the window-seat. I felt highly aware of Noel -- I won't say attuned, though it was something like that, as if my heart was beating with his and my breath slowed to his calming rhythm.

Before I could do something regrettable, I distracted myself by saying, "Some morning I'll get him up before dawn and we'll look for some planets."

"Good idea."

"How often do you come home with presents?"

"I try to keep it to once a week." He added after a pause, "I'd do anything to make him smile."

"You do a lot."

"Never enough," Noel said. "Nothing can make up for him being orphaned."

"He's not friendless or penniless," I said. "He's better off than most orphans -- better off than a lot of kids who have both parents."

Noel looked away, as if my praise unsettled him. He said, "The thing that kills me is that I always thought we'd have more time. I hadn't seen them since Christmas. I was traveling a lot that winter and thought I was just too busy for visits and there would be plenty of time later. And then there wasn't any later anymore."

I said quietly, "He's lucky to have you."

Noel looked unsettled again. "I hope you're right." He inhaled. "Well, I have work I should be doing. Excuse me, Malcolm."

"Good night," I said, and then turned in the window-seat before he left the school room. "Noel, I found an old ledger today in the library when I was poking around. Is it all right if I read that? It's an old, old book."

"Oh, we've got so many old, old books," Noel said. "Read anything you like. I trust you to take care of what needs care."

"Thank you," I said. He nodded and left the school room, and a few minutes later, I took up my cane and left too.

I didn't read any more of the ledger that night. I would, soon enough.

* * *

The third day at Fidele passed much as the others did: lessons with Caleb in the morning, lunch in the gardens, lessons and reading in the afternoon.

At supper that night, I was telling Noel and Emmanuel what we had done that day the same way I had the first few days, when Emmanuel interrupted me to say, "We're not paying you to fill his head with nonsense, Carmichael. We can't have him behind when he goes back to school."

"He won't be," I said mildly. "But children need--"

Emmanuel slapped the table, startling us all, Caleb enough to visibly flinch and drop his fork. With great deliberation, Noel place his water goblet on the table.

Emmanuel said, "I'm sick of you telling me what children need, Carmichael. The boy needs a firm hand, not fairy tales."

"Imagination needs to be fed," I said, not cowed. "An intelligent boy like Caleb--"

"A simpleton like Caleb, you mean," Emmanuel growled.

"Father!" Noel said sharply. "Don't you ever say that!"

Emmanuel slapped him hard across his face. Noel blinked, stunned, and beside me Caleb quivered, his eyes enormous. Even I was too shocked to speak.

Noel broke the silence. "Malcolm," he said calmly. "Please take Caleb out of the room."

I looked from Noel to Emmanuel and back, and then stood and held out my hand to Caleb. "Come on, Caleb. Let's go listen to the radio. Uncle Noel is okay. Let's go, Caleb."

His gaze warily fixed on Emmanuel, Caleb put his hand in mine and slipped out of his chair. When we were in the sitting room I turned on the radio and settled into the armchair beside it. Instead of taking his usual place on the floor, Caleb crawled into my lap and lay his head on my shoulder. I crooked my arm around him and leaned my cheek against his hair.

"Uncle Noel is very strong," I said. "I think Grandfather Emmanuel doesn't understand how strong Uncle Noel is. He will, though. He will."

I could hear raised voices from the dining room. I turned up the volume on the radio.

* * *

After Mrs. Bell took Caleb for his bath and bedtime, I sought out Noel. He wasn't in the library or in his room, nor in the music room or any other room that I passed in my search. I went to the carriage house to see if he had gone into the city for whatever comfort it might offer him. The Jaguar was still parked there, so despite my now-aching leg I went into the garden.

No sign of him, there, either. The path through the trees, though, with its darting fireflies and lazily swaying branches, held a certain sort of promise. I followed the path, and after a few minutes of walking found that it opened into a clearing.

A portion of the clearing was set off with a wrought-iron fence, and the path led through its gates. Through the trees I could see one of the sugar cane fields, and within the clearing were about two dozen stone structures -- above-ground tombs in the Creole style. I had found the family cemetery.

On the furthest tomb from the gates -- and therefore, I realized, the newest -- lay Noel, tossing an unlit flashlight back and forth in his hands as he talked, his voice only just audible above the other night sounds around us. I cleared my throat and he sat up abruptly, frowning, and flicked on the flashlight to shine it at me.

"Oh," he said when he saw me. "Malcolm."

"If you came out here to meet someone I can go."

"I'm not here to meet anyone," Noel said, so I went through the cemetery to join him. Some of the tombs were flat and square, with an upright headstone or a small statue of an angel or a lamb. Some had flowers planted beside them, still well-tended. Some were brick and marble structures, weathered with age, and the most ornate of them had to be Achille's. I thought I should return during the day sometime to view them more closely and learn more about the people whose names appeared in the Thibodeaux family Bible.

More urgent matters were at hand. When I reached Noel, I took the flashlight and held his chin so I could examine his face without hurting his eyes. The slap had faded to an angry throb on his cheek in the dim light. He let me inspect his face for a moment or two before he moved it out of my fingers.

"Better me than Caleb."

"Better neither of you. You're a grown man."

"Leave it, Malcolm. I'm fine. Just, no more relating your studies during supper. Tell me later. Emmanuel isn't interested."

"It still gives him no right to hit you."

Noel looked away. He said, "Your parents. What are they like?"

I paused, trying to think of the best way to sum them up. "They never made me cry myself to sleep."

"You were a lucky child." He took the flashlight back and shut off the beam.

"I know I was," I said and lowered myself onto the tomb beside him. "I never went to school with a black eye or beaten backside, and not all of my friends could say that." I took a deep breath. "But just because that's the way it's always been--"

"I don't want to talk about it, Malcolm."

"All right."

We sat in silence for some time, watching the darkness grow deeper in the woods around us. He didn't move closer to me, but neither did he tell me to go, and so I stayed.

Finally I said, "Who's buried here?"

"All the Thibodeaux clan," Noel said. "From Achille Thibodeaux to--" He swallowed, and I looked at the headstone behind us.

Of course. In times of trouble, he came to his twin.

I put my hand lightly on his back. He didn't object or move away, so I rubbed his back in a slow circle, as comfortingly as I could manage.

Eventually, slowly, he said, "When Simon and I were toddlers, Emmanuel didn't want us sleeping in the same crib. But every time Mrs. Bell put us to bed in separate cribs, we both would cry for hours and wouldn't sleep. Finally Emmanuel let us sleep together, and we stopped crying at bedtime." He paused. "I think that's the last kind thing he's ever done for me. I was fed and clothed and educated, but -- well, Emmanuel was never kind."

I wanted to say it couldn't be as bad as all that -- but obviously it was. The mark on his cheek put paid to that. I lay my head on his shoulder, still rubbing his back.

He said, even more softly, "When Grace was expecting Caleb, Simon once said to me, 'What if I'm like him? What if I hit my own child?' And I told him, 'You won't, because you're asking that question.'" He looked down at me. "So you must understand. Better me than Caleb."

"I don't like it, but I guess I understand."

"It's not your job to like it or not like it."

I lifted my head. "I live in this house," I answered. "I'm going to have opinions."

Noel gave me one of his small, mostly-in-the-eyes smiles. "Yes," he murmured, "of course you have opinions."

"I was never told children should be seen and not heard." I smiled back. "It's stayed with me."

We gazed at each other, and his eyes dipped to my lips. I licked them -- mostly without meaning to -- and he did the same.

Before I could lunge for him -- and I wanted to, I wanted to see if he still tasted like rain the way he always smelled like the ocean -- he turned away.

"Malcolm, I don't want to be ill-mannered, but I came out here to be alone."

"Right," I said. "I'll leave you to it." I gave his back one more pat, hauled myself to my feet, and started down the path out of the graveyard.

At the gates, I turned. "If he hits you again, I can't promise I'll just let it be."

Noel sighed. "He's my father, Malcolm."

"He's a jackass."

"Well," Noel said, "yes. But still my father. Try to show some respect."

"I'll try," I said, and as I went up back to the house I thought it was much easier to give respect where it was earned rather than where it demanded.

* * *

The next day was Saturday. In the morning, Noel, Caleb, and I played in the gardens, pretending we were explorers in the jungle. Among Caleb's toys were plastic swords and binoculars, which lent themselves well to chopping through a jungle and watching out for lions and tigers

Sometimes I glanced up at the house, not sure what I was looking for, and saw Emmanuel watching us from what I assumed was his study and puffing on his pipe. He turned away when our eyes met.

In the afternoon, Noel left us to meet with the farm manager, so while Caleb napped I cooked with Mrs. Bell. 

We chatted a bit at first, mostly about baking techniques, which I actually knew something about. But when the conversation lulled I said, "You were right. They could only keep the façade up for so long."

Mrs. Bell sighed as she punched down bread dough. "I knew Mr. Emmanuel would show his colors eventually."

I stirred the gravy. Dinner tonight would be ham and red-eye gravy, and the aroma was making my mouth water. There would also be green beans and mashed potatoes, and, of course, biscuits. "Was he always like that?"

"Oh, no," Mrs. Bell said. "Before the war, he was the gentlest man you can imagine. He and Fabi -- Miss Fabienne -- they were true sweethearts. But the war changed every man who came home, that's sure as sunrise."

"You knew Fabienne," I said.

She nodded. "We were girls together."

"What was she like?"

"Like Mr. Simon," Mrs. Bell said. "Fierce and loving, with a big heart and a love of music. She loved her babies so much. She wrote Mr. Emmanuel every week while she was expecting, to tell him how they were doing."

"And then he came home to a pair of motherless twins," I said. "I imagine he didn't take it well."

"No, Mr. Malcolm. He didn't."

We were both quiet, her face pensive. I said, "Noel seems to think that's just the way things have to be."

"It has been ever since he was a child." She paused. "It's a child's lot, and a woman's, too, to suffer what must be suffered and to endure what must be endured."

"But he's not a child anymore. He went to a university. He went to war." 

"Mr. Noel and Mr. Simon, they both tried to leave, they tried to make a life apart from Fidele, but the house called them back. It doesn't like to let go of its own." She looked at me. "You should leave before it claims you, too, Mr. Malcolm."

I said quietly, "And if I choose to stay?"

She looked down at her dough. "You stay, you cast your lot in with us, I don't know what will become of you."

"If I cast my lot with you, I'll protect what's mine."

"Yankees," she murmured, though it was not altogether disapproving.

"Cowboys," I said. "I'm from California."

"California," she said wistfully. "Is it really as beautiful as it looks in the pictures?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "Savagely so. In some places where the land meets the sea, it looks like it was bitten off in great chunks. San Francisco, the city where I grew up, is made up steep hills and goes right up to the cliffs over the ocean. The water is cold because it comes down from the Arctic. And in the mountains, there are trees so big and old they cut tunnels through their trunks to let cars through."

"You're making it up, Mr. Malcolm."

I crossed my heart. "Swear to God. I've seen them, the redwood forests like Woody Guthrie sings about. When we were kids my father would take us camping, and we'd pitch our tent under those big trees and sleep where it smelled like cinnamon and the air was as cool as a cave."

She gave me an exasperated look. "Stop toying with an old woman, Mr. Malcolm, and go ask Mr. Noel if Mr. Christie is staying for supper."

"Yes, ma'am," I said and put aside the spoon I'd been using with the gravy. "And you're not that old." I grinned at her and left the kitchen.

The door to the overseer's office was open, and I could hear the low murmur of voices as I came up the passage. I rapped lightly on the door with my knuckles, and they both looked up from the work table where they had spread out maps and ledgers and spreadsheets.

"Malcolm," Noel said, "come meet Alex Christie, our farm manager."

"Hello," I said and came into the office to shake his hand. Alex Christie was a man our age, with dark Gallic eyes and curly dark hair, of slender build and average height. He shook my hand firmly, which I appreciated -- I hated it when people treated me as if I were fragile just because of the cane.

"Malcolm Carmichael, Caleb's tutor," Noel said.

"A pleasure to meet you," Alex said. "Mr. Carmichael, I've got an idea and I'd like your opinion on it. I've got a little boy called Samuel who's about Caleb's age. I think Caleb could come to our house to play sometime, or I could have Julia bring Samuel here. It's hard for children to be alone."

"I'm still not sure Caleb is ready to be around other children," Noel said. “I’m worried he’ll be teased, or worse.”

"Samuel's a gentle child," Mr. Christie said. "He's so good with his baby sister. I'm sure he would do no harm to Caleb."

Noel said, "What do you think, Malcolm?"

"I think we should at least give it a try," I said. "Mr. Christie's right, it's not good for children to be isolated."

Noel still looked uncertain. "I'll ask Caleb and see what he thinks about it. I don't want to push him before he's ready."

"All right," I said, and Mr. Christie looked a little disappointed but nodded too. I went on, "Mrs. Bell sent me to ask if Mr. Christie is staying for supper tonight."

"Not tonight," he said. "Julia is expecting me."

"I'll tell her," I said and went back to the kitchen. Caleb was up from his nap, and sat at the kitchen table with one of his books, flipping through the pages as he sipped from a glass of milk. I relayed the message from Noel to Mrs. Bell, and then scrubbed my hand through Caleb's hair. "What shall we do with the rest of the afternoon, Caleb?"

He hopped down from his chair and Mrs. Bell tsked at him. "Finish your milk, Caleb. Don't be wasteful. There are starving children in China."

Caleb picked up his glass and gulped it down, and then grabbed my hand and tugged me out of the kitchen to his favorite place on the property, the gardens.

We played outside until the sun began to sink and Noel walked Mr. Christie to his car, which was parked in the drive. Caleb ran to Noel, and Noel swung him up into his arms.

"Did you have a good day with Mr. Malcolm today?"

Caleb nodded and smiled at me over Noel's shoulder.

"Ready for suppertime?"

The smile disappeared, and Caleb shrugged.

"Oh, now, peanut, don't look like that," Noel cajoled him. "It's not so bad. Grandfather was just in a bad temper last night."

 _Excuses,_ I thought, but I didn't want to contradict Noel in front of Caleb so I kept my opinion to myself.

* * *

Rene Gaspard had invited me to Sunday dinner as soon as I was in New Orleans. My first Sunday morning, as the rest of the household went to church -- Noel and Caleb both looked at me with envy when I said I preferred not to attend -- I called Rene to make certain the invitation was still open. He assured me, loudly and jovially, that his family was looking forward to meeting me that afternoon.

Half an hour before the appointed time, I took the truck into the city. Rene lived in a neighborhood called Bywater, full of small houses in neat rows, with the smell of barbecue in the air. When I rang the doorbell, the door was thrown open and I was greeted by not only Rene but most of his extended family.

"Is it a special occasion?" I murmured to him as we went through the house to the courtyard behind, where his mother and aunts were boiling crawfish with corn on the cob and onions in an enormous pot.

"Naw, Sarge," he answered. "It's just Sunday."

So it was true, then, what I had heard -- that New Orleans greets Sunday the way other cities greet the Fourth of July. I shrugged and decided to roll with it. I was from San Francisco, after all, not Boston.

Rene introduced me to his family members -- his mother and father, his two sisters, many cousins -- and then pulled over a pretty brown-haired girl wearing a cherry-red cotton dress and with red ribbons braided in her hair. "Ma belle Angelique," he said and kissed her cheek. "My future bride. Meet my old Sarge, Malcolm Carmichael."

"Sergeant," she said, and then her eyes widened and she gave an alarmed look to Rene. He didn't seem to notice, though, as he guided me to one of the long tables and a comfortable chair with room to stretch out my bad leg. I smiled at Angelique helplessly and hoped we'd have a few minutes sometime in the evening for me to explain whatever had unsettled her.

Before long I had a plate full of Gulf seafood and a cold beer to wash it down. The family drifted between Cajun-French and English and back again as they talked and ate, and as I joined the conversation I soon did the same. One of the uncles brought out a concertina so there was zydeco to go along with our meal. The young people began to dance as soon as their plates were empty, joined by the children, dancing awkwardly but without self-consciousness, and even the elders who were mobile enough strutted around to the music.

A few of the girls tried to get me up to dance, too, but I begged off. "It's hard to dance with a cane," I explained, and they cooed with disappointment.

Rene threw himself onto the seat beside me and shooed the girls away. "Leave Sarge be," he said. "He's a wounded vet. Show some respect." The girls left, hair ribbons fluttering, and Rene looked at me with a resigned smile.

"Let's find a quiet place, Sarge," he said, gesturing with the green glass bottle and two cups he carried in one hand, so I got to my feet and we left the courtyard to sit on the front porch instead.

The sun was setting and fireflies swooped lazily among the trees. Rene poured us both drinks from the bottle and we clinked glasses with a murmured, "Salut." I had a sip to find it was homemade cherry wine, tart and delicious.

I said, "You were going to tell me more about Fidele and the Thibodeauxes."

Rene raised his eyebrow at me -- the other was bisected by a scar, and that side of his face didn't move so easily anymore -- and said, "Where would you like me to start?"

"I've already heard that Emmanuel Thibodeaux blames Noel for the death of his wife. I assume there's more to the story than that."

"There is," he said. "Everyone's heard the story 'round here. It's well-known and often told."

"Tell me," I said, and he settled back in the porch swing, the bottle tucked against his thigh.

"The Thibodeaux family," he began, "has been in Louisiana since the days of the first French settlers and the casket girls. They survived the Spanish, they survived the purchase, they survived the War Between the States -- they've survived everything Fate conspired to throw at them. And yet they're cursed."

"Cursed," I said.

Rene nodded and drank. "Every Thibodeaux bride has died before her time. Sometimes they die in childbirth, like poor Fabienne Thibodeaux. Sometimes it's the times, like the yellow fever epidemic in the 1800s. Sometimes it's due to carelessness on the part of the husband, like young Caleb's parents."

"Carelessness?"

"The fire started in the bedroom, so says the fire marshall. Story goes one of them was smoking in bed and fell asleep without putting the cigarette out, and Grace didn't smoke."

I knocked back my wine, trying not to picture it -- but I could, entirely too well. I knew not only the sight of burned bodies but the stench, and the horror of burning to death was all too easy to imagine. "Good God."

Rene nodded again, looking grim. "It's always been like that. The first Thibodeaux bride, poor girl, they say she went," he spun his finger by his temple, "and tried to kill her baby. Achille Thibodeaux sent her to a sanitarium and there she died."

I shivered despite myself. "I can understand people believing in a curse two hundred years ago, but we've split the atom. We're going to go into space within our lifetime. It's not a world of demons and monsters anymore."

Rene sipped, watching the fireflies. He said softly, "I saw the same horrors you did, Sarge. I saw the same miracles. I don't know if it made me cynical or more open to belief." He shrugged. "It's a strange and puzzling world."

"That it is," I murmured and drank, letting the wine settle on the back of my tongue before I swallowed.

Rene said, "I'm surprised Noel stays with Emmanuel. Story goes that Emmanuel was terrible to him when the twins were boys. They were even taken away from him for a while, until his powerful friends made Children's Aid give them back."

"He's pretty awful to Noel still."

Rene huffed and drank. His fingertips tapped a rhythm on his knee. "I do know this. The Thibodeauxes are an old family, and old families have deep closets, full of skeletons." He looked at me. "Teach the boy, but stay out of the rest. That's what I think, me."

"I don't think I can do that," I replied.

"You always had a kind heart for a beautiful mess, Sarge," Rene said with a smile.

"Malcolm," I said, smiling back. "I'm a civilian now."

We both were still a moment, and then we moved away from each other as the front door opened and Angelique looked out. "There you are, Rene," she said and came to sit on his knee.

"Ma belle," he said and gave her a hearty kiss. He said to me, "My first wife left me for another during the war, but Angelique has been doing her best to heal my broken heart."

"I'm glad," I said, and I meant it. Rene and I had fooled around some during the war but we both knew it was more about comfort than anything else, and he was moving on. Marriage, a child or two or more, days working in the garage his family owned -- that was the life Rene wanted, and he was getting it. I envied him the simplicity of it -- but as pretty as Angelique was, she couldn't compare to Noel, even with all of his complications. "Congratulations."

She blushed under his praise, her arms around Rene's neck, but when her eyes met mine there was still something unfathomable in them, like there was something she wished to say but she didn't know how to broach the subject. I wanted to tell her it was fine, she had nothing to worry about from me, but I didn't know how to broach it, either.

"Tell you what, Sarge," Rene said, his arm easy around Angelique's waist. "Next Saturday night is yours, uh-huh? Come into the city and I'll show you where you can hear the best music and drink the best beer."

Angelique said, "We'll find a pretty thing for you, Malcolm."

"I'd love that," I said, though I doubted my idea of a pretty thing matched hers.

We drank more wine and talked until finally it was time for me to go home. I thanked Rene and Mrs. Gaspard, and everyone else who let me thank them, for inviting me for supper; I kissed a few cheeks and had mine kissed many times; and finally got into the truck to drive back to Fidele.


	9. The Lost Graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> "Teach the boy, but stay out of the rest. That's what I think, me."

An hour out of the city I realized I was hopelessly lost. I slowed the truck and crept along the swamp road, squinting down crossroads for anything that looked familiar, and hoped fervently that I wouldn't drive into the bayou in the dark.

This deep in the swamp I didn't expect to find any signs pointing the way, so when my headlights picked up something that looked a lot like an arrow carved into the trunk of a cypress, I stopped and got out of the truck to have a better view. It was indeed an arrow, pointing down a little dirt track. It seemed a better proposition than following the road that I increasingly suspected would lead me nowhere I wanted to be, so I got back into the truck and made the turn. It might be a road the forestry students used, I thought, since I knew they had a little station beyond the sugar cane fields, and maybe once I found the students I could get directions to the big house.

Instead of leading me to fields of baby trees, though, the little road led me deeper into the woods, where the oaks and cypresses grew tall and their branches reached over the road to hide the moon.

Abruptly the track came to a stop.

Instead the forestry station or even an abandoned plantation house, the end of the track was marked by a pair of standing stones set like gatekeepers on either side of a path. The thick trees grew up to the stones and continued beyond them, surrounding the plot of land they guarded like a fence.

Leaving the engine running so the headlights could illuminate my way, I got out of the truck and followed the footpath into the clearing, past the stones. 

Most places on Fidele, there was always some sort of noise going on -- lawn mowers, the farm machinery in the sugar cane fields, even the Mississippi's slow and mighty crawl -- but this little meadow was so quiet it seemed even the cicadas didn't dare to make a noise. It was otherworldly in a way that reminded me of a battlefield once the shooting stopped and the way your ears ring in the sudden silence.

I wished I had a flashlight with me as I followed the footpath. I did have my lighter in my pocket, though, and I lit it and held it up as I looked around.

Sometimes when camping in the Sierra Nevada mountains we would come across a patch of land so tidy it looked like an overgrown and forgotten garden -- and given the area's history of homesteaders and gold miners, it might have been, though our favorite story to tell each other about places like this was that the wild dryads of California had made these places, then abandoned them when civilization grew too near.

This place had a similar feel -- once lovingly tended, now forgotten. But it was no garden. Instead of neat furrows of corn or potatoes, there were slight depressions in the ground, of various sizes but all of an unmistakable shape.

A hundred or so of these depressions filled the meadow. A hundred or so deaths going unremembered.

The path led through the stones to the back of the plot, where there grew an enormous myrtle, at least as ancient as the oaks. I went to it, even though after the hours of driving and now walking on uneven ground my leg and hip were protesting further movement, but I had to see if the tree bore anything that might tell me who was buried here.

Something was carved into the myrtle's bark. I held my lighter closer and squinted in the dark as I tried to read it, but the letters were so overgrown I could only make out what perhaps was a J and maybe an S.

A soft, irregular clanking sound broke the silence, startling me so much that I dropped my lighter. My heart pounded in my chest, and I thought wildly maybe I could beat off an alligator with my cane if called upon. I flicked on my lighter and said, "Who's there?" as I held it up.

Something white and wispy darted through the trees just beyond the clearing. Despite the warm night my skin pricked. Not a gator, this -- I should know better than to think of spirits in a place like this, especially in a place like this --

"Show yourself," I ordered. "My name is Malcolm Carmichael and I am not afraid of you."

A twig snapped.

I held my breath. Braced myself.

A small dark-haired figure, dressed in white, launched itself out of the trees. Little arms wrapped around my knees. "Caleb?" I said and scooped him up with a slight groan -- he was a sturdy boy and heavy to hold with one arm -- and said, "What are you doing here in the middle of the night, Caleb?"

He put his arms around my neck and buried his head in my shoulder, shivering. His feet were filthy and wet from the forest floor, and he wore only his thin cambric pajamas. He must have been walking for hours. No wonder he was cold.

"Were you sleepwalking? Is the last thing you remember being in your bed?"

Caleb shook his head.

I said slowly, "You got out of your bed and came all the way out here by yourself, in the dark? Why?"

He shrugged. Well, it was a complicated question, even for a five-year-old who spoke.

I sighed and kissed his forehead. "I'm not angry with you," I said. "If anyone at Fidele knows you're gone, though, they're going to be frantic. Let's get you home."

We couldn't be far from Fidele if Caleb had walked here by himself, and so with Caleb in the passenger seat I turned back onto the little road and crawled the truck through the trees until I found the main road again, which eventually did lead us to the front drive of the big house.

As I suspected it would be, every light in the house was ablaze. There were police cars parked in the drive, and we had seen torches and flashlights among the trees of the new forest and the sugar cane stalks, and even along the borders of the bayou. I could hear people calling, "Caleb! Caleb Thibodeaux!" their voices echoing back to us across the open fields.

I carried Caleb from the carriage house to the big house. Noel was on the front porch in his dressing gown, looking like he was near his breaking point. "Look what I found," I said, trying to lighten the mood, as Caleb slid down from my arm.

Several expressions crossed Noel's face at once and he grabbed Caleb by the shoulders. "Where have you been?" he demanded. "Don't you know how dangerous it is out there? Why would you run away?"

Caleb's lower lip trembled and his eyes filled, and Noel got onto his knees and hugged Caleb to him. "I'm sorry, peanut," he whispered, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't yell at you, I'm sorry. I'm glad you're safe."

Caleb put his arms around Noel's neck and kissed his cheek. Noel closed his eyes a moment, hugging him tight -- all was forgiven between them, just like that.

One of the police officers approached us. "Is this the missing child, Mr. Thibodeaux?"

"Yes," Noel said, standing with Caleb in his arms. "This is Caleb."

"We'll call everyone back," the officer said and murmured something to one of his subordinates. He took me in with a look. "You must be the tutor."

"Malcolm Carmichael," I said. "I was in the city and got lost on the way home in the dark." I leaned on my cane. "I found Caleb out in the woods."

"What was he doing in the woods?" the officer said and looked at Noel.

"I don't know," I said. "At first I thought he might have sleepwalked, but I don't think that was the case."

The officer's expression grew skeptical. "What were you doing in the city, Mr. Carmichael?"

"Having dinner with friends," I said. "The Gaspards. I can get you their address if you want it."

"I think that would be a good thing to have."

"I trust Mr. Carmichael with Caleb's safety and well-being," Noel said, his voice tensing. "If he says he found Caleb in the woods, then he found Caleb in the woods. Caleb is exhausted, Officer Dunlap, and I'd like to put him to bed."

"Of course," the officer said, and gave me a long, thoughtful look before he turned to his sergeant. Meantime, the search party had begun to return to the house -- including Willie, whose kind face nearly broke at the sight of Caleb in Noel's arms.

"I can take him, Mr. Noel," he said. Noel looked at Caleb before handing him over, and Willie took him tenderly. They were met at the door by Mrs. Bell, who held Caleb's face in her hands for a moment and then followed them inside.

I stayed outside with Noel as he thanked the students and police for their help, and then when the last torch disappeared and the police cars were gone, Noel exhaled deeply. "I need a drink. Do you need a drink?"

"I would love a drink."

"Good," Noel said and went into the house. I followed him to the sitting room and sat at the side table while Noel poured us both a scotch. He brought the glasses and bottle to the table and pulled over a chair. Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace, and we both watched it and sipped until he said, "So, how was the dinner party?"

I looked at him, and then we both started laughing.

"It was a crawfish boil," I said when we calmed down. "It was a Cajun crawfish boil like something out of the pictures. It had everything -- zydeco and homemade cherry wine and girls with ribbons in their hair. It was amazing."

"I'm glad you had a good time." He looked at his glass and then had another drink.

"How'd this happen?" I asked quietly, with a nod toward the nursery.

"I went to check on him and he wasn't in bed, so I searched the house, and when I couldn't find him I woke up Willie and Mrs. Bell, and Mrs. Bell called the police, and it escalated from there."

"It was kind of the students to help," I said.

"Yes, it was," Noel murmured.

"And Emmanuel? What did he make of all this?"

Noel shrugged. "He sleeps through hurricane season."

The fire crackled for a while. Noel said, "Why would Caleb leave the house? That's what I don't understand. I know the two of you explore the grounds but he's never gone out by himself. Why would he leave in the middle of the night, alone, in his pajamas, without even slippers?"

I hesitated before I answered. "I found him in this strange little clearing. It was so quiet it was like it was in another world, and in the middle was an enormous myrtle tree. There was something in the branches -- it made this weird sound every time the wind blew."

Noel looked at me, then tapped our glasses together. "Did it sound like this?"

"Yeah, sort of. How did you know?"

"You found a bottle tree." Before I could ask, he said, "Where were you on the farm, when you found him?"

"It was deep in the woods," I said. "I'm not sure I was on Fidele land or forestry land."

"They haven't replanted all of it yet," Noel said. "They're rolling it out in waves. If it was on their land it might still be old-growth forest."

I had read enough of the writings of John Muir for that to concern me. "They're going to replant old forest?"

Noel shrugged. "They're deciding section by section. It depends on how old the forest is. If it's land that the woods reclaimed since the War Between the States and no one's been around to work it, they have no problem with replanting it. If it's older than that, they're going to cultivate it and study it. They're still surveying. Do you think you could find the clearing again?"

"I think so," I said. "There was an arrow carved into a tree that pointed out the path to get there." I hesitated, and said, "Noel, did I find a slave cemetery?"

"I wonder if you did," he murmured, rubbing his mouth in thought. "I know there's one out there, beyond where the slave quarters used to be. I think the last person who knew where it is died or left Louisiana before I was born."

"That would explain the gateway stones, anyway. What's a bottle tree and why would it be in the middle of a graveyard?"

"Country beliefs," Noel said with a sigh. "People put bottles on the branches of dead trees, or tie them into the branches of live ones. It's suppose to trap ghosts."

"Ghosts," I said.

"Ghosts get trapped in the bottles over night, and then destroyed by the light of the rising sun in the morning." He shrugged, with a small, fond smile. "Whoever made that yard must have been really afraid of restless spirits, to put a bottle tree right in the middle of it."

Well, he did say they were country beliefs. "Next you're going to tell me the family actually is cursed."

Any trace of a smile disappeared. "How did you hear about that?"

"Rene Gaspard," I explained. "He told me that Thibodeaux brides are cursed to die young."

Noel looked at me as if I had peeled back the layers from his deepest secret, and then laughed again in his dry way. "I think the swamp is getting to you, Malcolm. You're going to tell me you believe in ha'nts and hoodoo next."

"I don't think I'm quite that far gone yet," I said. "Still, that clearing is a strange place. It's got a -- a feel to it."

"A lot of places do, if you let them get to you." He held out his hand for my empty glass, and I gave it to him. "Let's go Saturday to try and find it again. I'd like to let the institute know if it's on their land, so if it is the slave cemetery they can decide what to do with it."

"And if it's still on your land?"

He shrugged as he carried the glasses to the liquor cabinet. "I'll consult someone in the Historical Society about the best thing to do -- whether to re-inter the bones somewhere or just put up a sign so people can find it. I don't suppose there was anything to identify who was buried there."

"Not that I could see," I said. "The closest thing to a name was something carved into the myrtle tree, but it was too overgrown to see."

Noel nodded. "Well, we'll figure it out when we find it." He stood still a moment, his hand resting on the lip of the liquor cabinet. "I need to look in on Caleb."

"So do I," I said, and so we went upstairs.

The door to Caleb's room was ajar. We looked in, and then Noel entered the room and sat on the edge of Caleb's bed. He ran his hand slowly over Caleb's dark curls.

I went to Noel and put my hand on his shoulder, and after a moment he put his hand on top of mine. "He's all I have," he whispered in a choked voice. "He's all I have."

"Let him sleep," I said. "He's safe. Come on." He got up and tucked the blankets closer around Caleb, and then followed me out.

Before we parted, he said, "Malcolm, tell me something. Your friend Gaspard -- is he a friend like Oliver, or--"

"We served together," I said. "He's getting married in a few months."

"Do you ever want that for yourself?" Noel said, taking a step toward me. "Wife, children? The whole fairy tale ending?"

I smiled at him wryly. "What would I do with a wife?"

"It would be normal."

"I don't want normal."

We gazed at each other.

I said softly, "What do you want, Noel?"

"I don't want normal, either." He paused, and then inhaled as if he wanted to say something more -- but it was only, "Good night, Malcolm."

I answered, "Good night, Noel," and we went to our own beds.

* * *

In the morning, no one stirred early except for Emmanuel, who had slept through all of the excitement, and Willie, who seemed to me to be made of sterner stuff than the rest of us altogether. I heard them leave not long after dawn, Emmanuel's voice booming through the quiet house, and forced myself to get up and get the day started.

I was in the kitchen, eating toast and drinking a large cup of coffee without much enthusiasm when Noel came in, dressed in a suit with his tie hanging around his neck.

"No lessons today," he said. "Caleb has a cold."

"I'm not surprised," I said, "after running around at night in his bare feet. Should I take him to the doctor?"

"Not today," Noel said. "Mrs. Bell says he needs sleep more than anything else. If it lasts another day we'll take him in." He paused. "How are you this morning?"

"A little tired," I admitted. "Wine always hits me harder than I expect it to. Are you going into the city today?"

"Yes," Noel said and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "I'd stay home but I've got findings to present today. I should be on my way now, in fact."

"Go on. Mrs. Bell and I will look after Caleb."

"All right," he said. "Call me if you need me to come home early." He left the kitchen, knotting his tie as he went.

As I finished my very plain breakfast, Mrs. Bell came into the kitchen. "Would you give Caleb his breakfast?" she asked me. "I can't convince him to come down to eat."

"I will," I said, and when she had the tray put together -- orange juice, oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, a biscuit, fresh fruit, an aspirin tablet she had cut in half -- she carried it upstairs and I followed.

In Caleb's room, she set the tray on Caleb's little play table and left. The only sign of Caleb was a lump under the blankets in the little bed, so I sat on the edge of the bed and patted what I assumed was Caleb's back. "Hey, sleepyhead. I understand you're not feeling good today."

The lump shifted, and Caleb's pale, weary face peered out from under the blankets.

"There you are," I said and laid my hand on his cheek and then his forehead. Both were warm and clammy, and his nose was running. I took out my pocket handkerchief and wiped his nose, and he blew obediently. "Let's take your medicine first, honey. It'll help you feel better."

He sat up long enough to swallow the pill with orange juice to wash it down, making a face the entire time, and then lay his head on my chest and closed his eyes.

"There's oatmeal," I said. "If you're hungry."

He shook his head and yawned.

"All right," I murmured, "maybe later." I braced my arm around him and scooted back so I could lean against the headboard -- Caleb was too heavy to hold without a little support. I patted his back rhythmically as if he were an infant, and watched the trees sway outside his window.

I must have dozed off myself, because I opened my eyes to see Noel standing beside the bed. The room was very cold, and I held Caleb a little tighter as Noel -- no longer dressed in a suit, which I thought odd, but wearing instead khaki trousers and a red V-necked sweater -- bent over Caleb and ran his hand over Caleb's cheek. A silver wedding band glinted on his ring finger, and a saint's medal dangled around his neck.

At the touch, Caleb stirred in his sleep and his eyelids fluttered. His lips parted and he made a tiny sound, like a baby cooing in contentment.

I said, "Noel?" and the figure's eyes met mine -- and then he disappeared.

I bolted upright, blinking, the hairs on the back of my neck pricking and goosebumps dotting my arms. Of course it wasn't Noel -- Noel had left for the city hours ago, judging by the sun shining through the window, but that meant --

"I must have been dreaming," I said out loud, and Caleb's eyes blinked open. I smiled at him, trying to shake off the strange and unsettling vision. "Ready to start your day?"

He nodded and untangled himself from the blankets, and I set him on the floor. I chatted to him as casually as I could manage as we choose clothes for him to wear, which he insisted on putting on himself; and then I sat with him at his play table so he could eat his oatmeal.

"We could heat that up again," I told him but he shrugged, eating methodically. "Oatmeal is usually better when it's hot. Or I could try to make grits. That can't be too hard, can it?"

Caleb patted my hand, and I smothered a smile.

"Or sometime I'll ask Mrs. Bell to teach me how to make them," I said. "I want her to teach me to make biscuits and gravy, too, now that she's taught me how to make biscuits properly."

There was a biscuit on his tray, spread with butter and honey. He picked it up and had an experimental bite.

"Don't worry about that not being tasty," I said. "Mrs. Bell made that."

He had a bigger bite, and I laughed, not insulted. I didn't blame him -- I knew how to make biscuits, but you could still tell the difference between mine and Mrs. Bell's. I said, "My mother taught me and my brothers and sister how to cook the way French people do -- she was from France, you see -- but my skills aren't up to Mrs. Bell's standards yet. I'll keep practicing. Have you ever had ratatouille?"

Caleb thought about it, then shook his head.

"It's a vegetable dish -- a peasant dish, my mother called it, but I loved it when the weather was cold. And the weather is cold a lot in San Francisco."

There were a few textbooks on his table from Friday. Caleb picked up his geography primer and opened it to the map of the United States, and looked at me expectantly. "This is California," I said, pointing to the state on the map, "and this little dot is San Francisco. Shall we find New Orleans?"

He thought we should, and then New York and Boston, too, and London and Paris when we moved on to the world map; there, we also found Manila and Tokyo and Hong Kong. We placed grapes from his breakfast tray on each city, and when we were done finding cities we ate the grapes.

Whatever had driven him to the woods seemed to be forgotten. I wished I could shake it all off as easily -- the strange feeling that little clearing gave me, the bottle tree, and the odd vision I had seen in Caleb's bedroom.

Caleb and I spent the rest of the morning reading books in front of a roaring fire in the sitting room, and then after lunch I brought out the crayons and drawing paper. I let Caleb draw as he liked for a while, then said, as I drew a picture myself, "Caleb, do you remember why you left the house last night?"

His crayon stopped and he looked up at me, slow and cautious.

"You frightened Uncle Noel and Mrs. Bell and Willie very much, and if I'd been home I would have been frightened, too. It's a big world and you're still a little thing."

He drew a pair of small blue circles, his brows furrowed in concentration.

"Did you decide to go see the new forest?" I said gently. "Was that why you left?"

Slowly, Caleb shook his head, not looking at me.

I hunkered down on the floor beside him, wincing at the pressure it put on my hip, and said, "Caleb." Reluctantly his eyes met mine, and I said, "Did someone say something to you, or do something, that made you want to leave the house?"

His face solemn, he shoved his drawing at me -- he had drawn a man in brown pants and a red V-neck sweater, and had written "DADDY" beneath the figure in big, wobbly letters.

I picked up the picture, the hairs on the back of my neck pricking like they had earlier in his room. "I know you miss your daddy, honey," I said and gave the picture back. "Did you have a dream about him and think he might be in the forest?"

He looked at me helplessly, and then grabbed his crayons and drew a little yellow star. Beside the star he drew a big tree, blue bottles hanging from its branches, and then he looked at me expectantly.

"I'm sorry, Caleb," I said, "I still don't understand."

Caleb sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He grabbed his black crayon and drew a dark smear over the star, and then a big X over the picture of Simon, over and over, hard enough to tear the paper, as his breathing grew shallow and uneven and he abruptly began to sob.

"Caleb!" I said and grabbed his hand, and he threw himself into my arms. I held him tight and stroked his back, and whispered, "It's okay, baby boy, it's okay," until he stopped sobbing and only breathed heavily, exhausted with emotion, and lay his head on my shoulder.

Enough was enough -- he needed rest. I took him upstairs, and when he was tucked in on his little bed, I pulled over a chair and kept watch as I worked on my own drawing -- similar to his, the dream figure that I knew I had seen before, the man in khaki pants and a red sweater.

Simon.

And why would I dream about a man I'd never met? That's a good question. I didn't know.


	10. Tumnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> He had drawn a man in brown pants and a red V-neck sweater, and had written "DADDY" beneath the figure in big, wobbly letters.

At suppertime, the four of us ate in the dining room. Caleb took small and careful bites as Emmanuel watched him from beneath his brows, while Noel was tense as a coiled spring he waited to calm any rifts between them.

After the soup had been cleared away and Willie had placed the main course on the table, I decided I'd had enough. "Mrs. Bell is teaching me to cook."

Three forks paused in mid-air.

I said, "I mean, I knew how to cook already -- my mother taught me French cuisine -- but it's not the same as Southern food." I said to Emmanuel, "Did you ever have any real French cooking while you were overseas, Mr. Thibodeaux?"

There was a pause. "Some."

"When the weather gets colder I want to make you all ratatouille," I said. 

Noel said, "The weather doesn't get very cold here, even in winter. I imagine even San Francisco gets colder."

"It probably does. It's not a hot city." I drank some water. "What about you, Noel? Did you get to try any Japanese food while you were in the Pacific?"

"A little," Noel said, "though more when I was stationed in Honolulu in the beginning than while we were island-hopping. Then it was all K-rations and MREs." He added, to Caleb's quizzical look, "That means meals ready-to-eat."

"Being a soldier is not very glamorous," I said. Caleb gave me a look that said, _I know that, dopey,_ and I grinned at him.

"Now that we've covered all of our adventures in foreign food, can we actually eat?" Emmanuel said. 

"Sorry, sir," I said. "Many families eat and talk at the same time. I thought we might want to try it."

Emmanuel scowled at me, while across the table Noel looked like he was trying very hard not to smile.

We managed to finish supper without much more conversation or interruptions. Once Caleb's plate was clean and we were having coffee while Caleb sipped one more glass of milk, Noel said, "Caleb, I brought you something from the city. Would you like to see it?"

Caleb nodded eagerly, then glanced at Emmanuel as if he expected Emmanuel to forbid whatever the gift was. Emmanuel slurped his coffee loudly, his only protest.

Noel called, "Willie?" and when Willie came into the dining room, there was a tiny, fluffy, gray and white kitten in the crook of his arm. Caleb's eyes grew enormous and he hopped out of his chair to run to Willie, where he stared at the kitten reverently. Willie chuckled as he stroked the kitten's fur.

I raised an eyebrow at Noel, and he shrugged in return. "Dr. Dufresne says pets are good for children."

"That they are," I said, and stayed at the table as Noel went to Caleb and Willie and took the kitten. He knelt down so he was eye level with Caleb.

"What do you think of her? Do you want to hold her?"

Caleb took the kitten carefully. The kitten meowed, a tiny sound, and clung to Caleb's sleeve with her needle-like claws. Caleb beamed at us all in turn.

"I'm glad you like her," Noel murmured, stroking Caleb's hair. "What shall we call her?" He glanced at me, a smile lurking on his lips. "Should we name her after one of the planets? Venus, maybe, or Europa?"

"How about 'Damned Nuisance?'" put in Emmanuel.

"Maybe something from the book we're reading," I said. "Like Lucy or Susan, the girls in _The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe_."

"I'm glad you like that book," Noel said.

Emmanuel snorted. "Witches and fairy land."

"It came highly recommended," Noel said.

Caleb was still thinking it over, and looked at me questioningly. "Maybe one of the other characters, like Aslan?" I said. "Or Tumnus? Though neither of those characters are girls."

Caleb nodded eagerly.

"Tumnus?" I said, and Noel echoed, "Tumnus?"

"What kind of a name is that?" said Emmanuel.

"Neither a witch nor a fairy," I said. "A faun, in the Greek style, who befriends one of the girls from our world."

Emmanuel snorted again. "Fairy tales." He pointed his coffee spoon at me. "We don't pay you to fill his head with nonsense, Carmichael."

"Fairy tales teach children to be brave," I replied. Caleb brought the kitten to me and I stroked her soft head. Her ears were like velvet, her nose a pink jelly bean. She licked my palm with her tiny rough tongue. "Tumnus," I said again, and Caleb nodded. "All right. Her name is Tumnus."

"I like it," said Noel, getting to his feet. "Now, Caleb, she's yours, which means you'll need to take care of her. Feed her and give her water and play with her and clean up after her. It's not fair to Mrs. Bell or Willie to expect them to take care of your pet, so she's your responsibility." He looked at me and gave a little squint, almost like a wink. We would help, of course. "Deal?"

Caleb stuck out his hand. Noel laughed and shook it.

"Deal, then. Come on, I brought a bed and a litter box for her, too. Let's go set them up." His hand on Caleb's shoulder, they took the kitten out of the dining room, followed by Willie.

Emmanuel and I drank our coffee in silence, until Emmanuel said, "He's spoiling that child. Rewarding him with a pet after he ran away -- it's ridiculous."

"I think," I said, "the idea is to give him something to help him feel safe."

"I still say--"

"I know what you say, Mr. Thibodeaux," I said.

He snorted but didn't pursue it further. I was glad -- I was exhausted of the subject.

I finished my coffee and said good night to Emmanuel, to which he grunted in return, and went upstairs to see how the kitten was settling in. Noel and Caleb were still in Caleb's room, deciding where to put the kitten's basket, as the kitten picked her way across Caleb's coverlet and sniffed his pillow.

Noel saw me pause in the doorway and got up to join me. "I probably should have talked to you first."

"Why start now?" I said, and he chuckled in response, watching the kitten -- Tumnus, I should say -- clamber onto Caleb's arm and up his shoulder. She stuck her nose into his ear, and he looked up at us, beaming. "I think it was the right choice. It gives him something to love."

Noel nodded slowly. "What does Tumnus do in the story?"

"He gives Lucy tea and a warm place to spend a snowy afternoon," I said. "We haven't gotten far enough into the story to see what else he's going to do. But her brothers and sister don't believe she went to the magical land in the wardrobe, which I think Caleb finds upsetting."

"Poor kid," Noel said, and then chuckled. "Listen to me, sympathizing with a fictional character."

"Empathy is very attractive," I said before I thought, and he cut his eyes to me for a moment before he laughed dryly again.

"Indeed. I'll put Caleb to bed tonight. Will you tell Mrs. Bell, if you see her?"

"I will," I said, feeling dismissed, but I didn't mind. I was insanely attracted to empathetic Noel, just like how I was insanely attracted to loving uncle Noel. I needed some time to settle myself.

Back in my room, I paused at my desk where the pictures Caleb and I had both drawn that afternoon were on top of all the other papers from the last few days. His spelling list and math problems, I thought, were not one-tenth as important as the picture of his father and the little star, and I still didn't know why.

I picked up a book and sat in the armchair to read, and after about ten pages realized that I had no idea what I had just read. I sighed and closed my book, picked up the pictures and went to find Noel.

He was in the library, setting up his maps and notebooks on the study table. He looked up when I tapped on the open door. "May I disturb you for a few minutes?"

"Of course," Noel said and closed his book. "What's on your mind?"

"Caleb," I said. I came to the table and put the drawings on his pad. "I asked him why he left the house last night, and this is what he drew."

Noel paged through the drawings, frowning. "I don't understand."

I pulled over a chair to sit beside him. "That's the bottle tree. Under all that black he drew his father," I said, pointing, "and a little yellow star."

"And thens scribbled them out," Noel said.

"Yes. And wept while he did so."

Noel gave me a troubled look. "He knows his parents are buried in the family graveyard. I wonder if he tried to find that graveyard and got lost, and came across the slave graveyard instead." Noel put the drawings down. "I'm hopeful the kitten will encourage Caleb to stay in bed until morning. Her basket is right by his bed -- though they were curled up together on his bed when I tucked him in," he added, softening as he so often did when he talked about Caleb, and I couldn't help but smile in response.

"I hope it works," I said. "I suppose just listening for opening doors in the night is the only other step to take. It's not good to lock a child in his room."

"No, it isn't," Noel murmured. He cleared his throat. "Given all the noises this old place makes, though, I don't know how helpful just listening for him will be." He looked down at the drawings again, and his fingertip tapped on the drawing of the star. "I'll talk to him about leaving the house at night. It seems like that's a habit of his, anyway -- the night of the fire, the firefighters found him a few streets away from the house, wandering in his pajamas."

"If one of his parents helped him escape the fire, why didn't they get out, too?"

Noel didn't answer for a moment, and I touched his arm to apologize for blundering into the subject so clumsily. "They were both found in their bed," he said when he'd cleared his throat again. "We don't know how he got out of the house. Simon and Grace locked their doors at night. Everyone in the city has since there was a crazed killer loose back in 1919."

"A crazed killer," I repeated, "really. My God."

"N'awlins, cher," Noel said. "He's called the Axeman of New Orleans if you want to look it up." He said in a brisker tone, "I suppose the best we can do is lock all the doors to outside. Caleb would need a key to get out."

"That's probably for the best," I said. "Do you think Dr. Dufresne should see the pictures?"

"Yes. I'll take them in at his next appointment." He put them into his briefcase. "Thank you for bringing them to me."

"You're welcome," I said, but still lingered at the study table. "When do you want to try and find the graveyard again?"

"Saturday morning," Noel said absently, already paging through his notes. "That should give us the most hours of daylight."

"All right." I rose from the table. "Good night, Noel."

"'night, Malcolm," he said, absorbed in his work, and I left the library.

To be honest, I didn't feel any more at ease than I had before my talk with Noel. Locking the doors might prevent Caleb from getting lost in the bayou or the fields, but that left the house, with that high vestibule and winding, labyrinth-like staircases. It seemed like an easy place for a small child to fall or get locked in an unused room, and Caleb couldn't call for help.

On the other hand, he had Tumnus looking after him now, and while she was still just a tiny thing a small guardian was better than no guardian at all. Maybe she would do as Noel hoped, and help Caleb feel safe.

The darkness was deep, this far from the city, and when I went out onto the west veranda I was reminded of Hurtgen Forest -- except there were fireflies darting around each other in the fields and among the trees, which I had never seen in Germany or France. I watched them dance while I smoked an evening cigarette, and then decided to try to sleep and went back inside.

The lamps were still burning in the library as I passed it, but I didn't stop, not wanting to disturb Noel.

* * *

In the morning, I woke up with four deep, red scratches down my sides. At first I thought it might be the kitten, that she had somehow crept into my room and scratched me in my sleep, but the scratches were too big and deep for her tiny paws, and she would have had no way in since my door was closed all night.

I thought I must have scraped myself on rosebushes while I was in the garden and not noticed it. I dabbed the scratches with a little antiseptic and went about my day.

Every morning I drew a Daily Schedule on one of the chalkboards in the school room, not just to tell Noel what we were studying that day but to let the rest of the household know where they could find us, if we were needed. I drew grass and flowers and sunshine on fine days, and on rainy days -- which happened more often than I expected that first week -- I drew a frame of grey rainclouds and fat raindrops at the top, and at the bottom thirsty flowers reaching up with their petals and leaves to catch the water. 

When the weather was good we were outdoors as much as possible. We studied biology at the riverbank and practiced spelling while reclining on picnic blankets; we looked at the stars through the little telescope, and his eyes grew large with wonder when we read newspaper articles about the nation's plans to go to the moon. We played with Tumnus, who liked to hunt insects in the tall grass when we went out to the rest fields; we played marbles in the garden, laying the foundation for geometry; we drew pictures together, and when I gave him leave to use my colored pencils instead of crayons he drew with the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.

When the weather was bad, I still tried not to keep him confined to the school room. We both liked the library, even if stormy weather meant we had to use candles instead of the electric lights. Caleb would sit in one of the big armchairs with Tumnus dozing at his side, while I read to him or went over the lessons for the hour, sometimes using the big atlas or the sepia-colored globe, or we would draw together more at the study table, sitting across from each other while Tumnus wandered up and down the table or sat on the open books, the tip of her tail twitching as her ears followed the sound of thunder.

Caleb didn't draw his father or mother again, at least not during lessons or play time. I wanted to ask him about them -- what he remembered about them -- but figured he got enough of that during therapy, and only asked him to draw things related to what we were studying that day. "Draw me Jupiter," I said, or, "Draw a riverboat," and he would, better than most five-year-olds I had taught, even better than I had at that age. 

"I think he's got a real future as an artist or an illustrator," I told Noel, and Noel smiled faintly as he looked through the drawings Caleb had made.

"Emmanuel would hit the roof if he did." He gave the drawings back to me. "He doesn't think art of any kind is a respectable way to make a living. Becoming a pianist was Simon's biggest act of rebellion. Emmanuel wanted him to be a doctor."

"Why didn't he?"

"Simon hated the sight of blood." 

We were at the study table in the library again, Noel's own papers spread out for his work -- geological surveys, as I understood it, along with architectural plans, for him to work out if the plans would fit with the water supply available. I admit, at the time I wasn't entirely sure what he did aside from knowing water was involved -- a tricky question even in a state abundant in water like Louisiana. I sometimes thought California, hovering on the edge of the desert, would be a bigger challenge to him.

He could have been an artist himself, if the maps and plans I saw were any indication. His drawings were precise and detailed, as easy to read as any printed map, neatly labeled in architectural handwriting. But he'd followed his father's wishes, and had a respectable career.

I said, "You could have done anything -- including playing piano. Why engineering?"

"I like making things. If I hadn't been able to go to college I might have become a carpenter, instead." He wrote for a moment, translating his scrawled notes into something his secretary would type up for him on Monday. "Mrs. Bell's son was a carpenter. He did beautiful work -- mostly rocking chairs."

"I didn't know Mrs. Bell had any children of her own."

"Just the one. Rafe -- Raphael. He was a cook for the Navy during the war and his ship was torpedoed."

"Poor Mrs. Bell," I said, and wondered if that was part of why Mrs. Bell was so protective of Caleb and of Noel -- she'd lost two boys already, and was clinging to the two who remained. "What was he like?"

"I never saw him much, growing up," Noel replied. "I spent a lot of our childhood years at boarding school, and before then he was too young for us to play with much. Mostly I remember he liked to make things, too."

I nodded thoughtfully. My family -- my neighborhood -- had lost so many of our boys, but there were more of us. For such a small household, Fidele seemed to have lost almost everyone.

"I'll let you get to work," I said, pushing myself up from the table. "Have fun making things."

"Always do," he answered.

* * *

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. Noel and I got up early and took the truck out to the forestry students' road. Mrs. Bell would take Caleb for the day and Emmanuel usually spent Saturdays in the city with his cronies, playing golf or doing whatever men like him did to fill their free time.

I have a good visual memory, but thanks to unfamiliar landmarks and driving in the dark versus driving in the day, it took us most of the morning to find the gateway stones to the little clearing. Noel pulled the truck as close to the head of the path as he could, and we both climbed out, Noel with the camera he had brought to record what we found.

The clearing was just as quiet as it had been that night, and the sensation of it made me shiver. Outside of the gateway stones, you could hear the river, birds, other creatures going about their business in the underbrush -- within, the only sound was the faint clanking of bottles against branches in the bottle tree.

Noel took a few pictures standing between the gateway stones, and then lowered his camera. "It feels strange here," he said quietly. "Solemn."

"Sad," I said. "Forgotten."

"I don't think there's anyone around to remember. But the location makes sense, at least. The slave cabins weren't far from here."

"Who lives there now?"

"No one. They were sharecroppers' cabins until I was about ten or so, and then the sharecroppers stopped coming around. There were more jobs in the cities, I suppose." He went to the bottle tree and laid his hand on its trunk. 

I watched him, and said when he only looked up at the branches, "Should we take the bottles down?"

"Oh, no," Noel said. "They're not hurting anyone. Part of the story says that if you destroy the bottles it'll set the ghosts they've caught free, and I'd rather let the people who believe in this sort of thing to feel protected."

"People still believe in this?"

"You'll see it in gardens all over the city." Noel stepped back a few paces and took some pictures of the tree. "Though usually in front of houses, not in a graveyard itself."

"Maybe they planted it to protect themselves from someone they were afraid of."

Noel paused and looked at me, and then raised the camera again. "This is land the institute bought," he said. "I'll tell their surveyors where to find it."

I watched him take pictures for a few minutes more. My knee and hip were starting to ache, so I went back to the gateway stones and leaned against one for a little relief. It seemed to me there was more to the story -- I thought he might even know who the tree was meant to catch -- but for whatever reason, Noel didn't want to tell me. 

When Noel lowered the camera again, he asked, "Are you tired?"

"Just achy." I waved my hand at him. "Go on and finish."

He tossed me the keys to the truck and I caught them in my free hand. "I'll be done soon."

I unlocked the truck and climbed in, and then lay down across the front seat so I could stretch my leg a little. Caleb was an early riser and my sleep had yet to improve as I grew accustomed to my new surroundings, so perhaps it was no wonder that in this quiet moment my eyelids lowered and I dozed off.

I heard sobbing. Not just the quiet sobbing of grief -- this was wild, full of rage and betrayal, the sobs of someone on the edge of despair. 

_Achille! Achille! Give me back my baby! Give me back--_

The door on the truck creaked as it opened and I sat bolt upright, my fist drawn back to sock whoever had woken me -- and saw it was Noel, his hands up. "Hey, hey," he said soothingly. "It's just me."

"Sorry," I said and scrubbed my hand over my face. "I usually don't hit people when they wake me."

He climbed into the driver seat as I rearranged myself in the passenger side. "It's fine." I gave him the keys and he started the engine. He backed the truck along the road until there was enough room to turn, and then he said, "Are you still having nightmares?"

"Yes," I said. "I haven't had one during the day for a while -- but I don't normally nap during the day."

"I don't think they ever really go away," Noel said quietly. "I don't know any former G.I. who sleeps through the night."

"If you're worried about playing the piano during the night to help you sleep, I haven't heard you." I smiled at him. To be honest, I wished I did hear him at night -- I would have joined him. I had no desire to make music myself anymore, but I always liked hearing others do it.

Noel didn't smile back. "Hm. Good."

Something in his silence prompted me to turn and lift up my shirt to show him my scratched side. "I woke up with these the other day."

He stopped the truck. "Jesus, Malcolm," he murmured and lightly touched the scratches.

"I thought at first it might be the kitten, but there's no way she could have gotten into my room, let alone scratched me that deeply." I looked at him over my shoulder. "I know bugs grow big in the South, but I doubt even swamp mosquitoes could have done that."

"No, not mosquitoes." He lowered my shirt and ran a soothing palm over my side. "I -- I don't have an explanation to offer."

"I'm sure it's nothing."

He looked at me unhappily, and then started driving again without a word. But that was Noel, I'd noticed -- if he didn't want to speak, he didn't.

The house was quiet when we returned, the Packard gone from the carriage house. I toyed with suggesting to Noel that we continue keeping each other company, but he went straight from the carriage house to the path that led to the family cemetery, and I didn't follow.

Left to my own devices, I settled in the sitting room with the radio on and my sketchbook open on my knee. I rarely had time to myself like this since I'd arrived at Fidele, and I supposed I ought to make the most of it.

The thought made me look longingly out the window in the direction Noel had gone. I craved his presence -- I had done much less basking in his beauty than I had hoped, though I supposed I was fortunate to see him at all. He could move back into the city, if he decided living with Emmanuel wasn't worth the trouble. He could work his long hours at his office instead of bringing so much work home with him every night. But he did all these things for Caleb's sake, so Caleb wouldn't be alone with his grandfather and a few employees, so that he could have supper with Caleb every night.

As I idly sketched, I wondered if Noel knew how attractive Loving Uncle Noel was, or if it would have made a difference if he did.

I should ask him to come with me tonight, I thought, and scribbled a note to myself in the corner of the page. Rene and Angelique had asked me to come out with them, and I intended to go. Surely they would welcome Noel too, as easily and warmly as they had me.

That decision made, I kept one ear cocked for footsteps in the main foyer as I drew the new character for my comic, my most perfect knight, who I had decided to name Tristan -- a name with a tragic history, but names aren't destiny. (Duncan and I were named after kings, after all.) Still, despite giving him a name and determining some of his story, I didn't know what sort of adventure he and Sir Errant ought to have. Most of my ideas involved them riding around the countryside and telling each other stories, hardly compelling fiction, and too close to the Canterbury Tales-inspired pilgrimage story I had just finished.

 _I need a quest,_ I thought, but drew a blank on exactly what sort would do -- something that would be fun for me to draw for the next few months and would also give me opportunity to explore these two characters in depth.

As I looked up, to draw what inspiration I could from the view of the bayou, I noticed the day had grown dark. Another storm was brewing. Well, Noel had warned me the rainy season was at hand.

I got up to light one of the table lamps when a clap of thunder sounded through the house, loud enough to make the windows rattle in their panes.

A tiny meow caught my attention, and as I looked in the passage outside of the sitting room I saw the kitten, Tumnus, crouched down on the carpet. She made another pathetic, frightened sound as lightning flashed, and I stooped to pick her up. "Sh, now, sh," I murmured to her and stroked her fur, and she hid her head in the crook of my arm.

I expected Noel to come through the door at any moment, seeking shelter from the rain, but when I looked out the window again I saw there was no rain falling. Just thunder, which rumbled sullenly in the distance after that initial deafening clap, and lightning that seemed to flash far more often than it should.

I murmured soothingly to Tumnus as I went back to the vestibule, and as I tried to think of the best way to get a frightened kitten to stop shaking there was another thunderclap, this time along with an accompanying flash of lightning, and the electric lights flared all at once and went out.

I stood frozen in the gloom. Of course lights failed during storms, I'd seen that just this week, but I'd never seen lights that were switched off turn themselves on like that. Tumnus was making high-pitched, terrified sounds, her claws digging into my chest, so I murmured again, "Sh, now, nothing to be frightened of."

As if to put a lie to my words, there was a sound overhead like someone running down the passage. I called, "Caleb? Mrs. Bell?" though I knew I was alone in the house. "Noel? Who's there?"

A scream rent the air. Not a sound of pain but of anguish, the kind that leaves a scar on the soul. I clutched Tumnus to me as a shape -- a shadow, but with substance -- fell from the uppermost landing and crashed into the floor, leaving --

Nothing. Not so much as a splinter.

Tumnus hid her head in my neck as I stared, dumbfounded, at what should have been a broken and bleeding body, given what I had just heard, but was only the polished wood floor covered with a woven rug.

The door creaked behind me and I whirled -- I don't know what I expected -- but there stood Noel as the rain at last began to fall.

"Malcolm? What's wrong?" He shut the door and came to me, and took Tumnus from me as she frantically meowed, her eyes enormous and her fur on end.

"I... I don't know," I said. I shoved a hand through my hair, and realized how badly my hands were shaking.

"Sit," Noel ordered and pulled me to the stairs, which were closer than any chairs. I sank into the nearest step and leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees, and then closed my eyes when Noel laid his hand on the back of my neck. "Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth."

I did as I was told, concentrating on filling my lungs and then expelling as much of the air as I could, until my hands were steady again. Noel, meantime, sat on the step beside me and murmured to the kitten until she, too, was no longer shaking and crying with fear.

"What happened?" Noel said quietly.

I said as steadily as I could manage, "A woman fell from the uppermost landing."

Noel's expression didn't change. "Are you sure about that?"

"No," I said. "There's no body, after all. There was thunder and lightning, the lights went out, I heard a scream and saw someone fall -- but there's nothing."

Noel nodded, absently petting Tumnus. The lights flickered back on -- the chandelier at the top of the vestibule, the sconces along the walls -- but they did little to relieve the gloom.

I said, "You're taking this more calmly than I expected."

"This is an old house," Noel replied. "Strange noises are part of the charm."

"Bullshit," I said, and he looked at me, his face solemn. "What did I hear?"

"Nothing to worry about," Noel said, rising. "I'm going to see if some milk will calm her down."

"So there is something."

"Nothing to worry about," Noel repeated and left the vestibule, the kitten blinking at me over his shoulder.

I stayed on the stair a few minutes more, listening to the rain tap against the windows. I could make no sense of what I had heard and seen, but I knew I had heard and seen it -- that Tumnus had sensed something too, even if she didn't experience it quite the same way. She was a calm creature normally, playful and curious in the manner of kittens, but not one of a nervous disposition. This had frightened her. Not just frightened -- terrified her.

I went to the kitchen, where I found Noel giving Tumnus a small bowl of cream. "There, there," he murmured as he petted her and she lapped at the milk. He looked up at me. "Yes, Malcolm?"

"Rene Gaspard and his fiancee asked me to join them at a blues club tonight," I said. "Would you like to come, too?"

He looked down at the kitten for a moment before he answered. "No, thank you. I've been thinking I'd take Caleb to the pictures." He looked up at me again. "Maybe some other time."

"Sure." I leaned against the doorframe. "And you're not going to tell me anything more about that scream I heard."

"What could I tell you?" he said mildly. "Yes, you heard a scream, or no, you didn't? I was outside. There's no body in the vestibule. Maybe it was just thunder, louder than you're used to."

"I saw a shape," I said. "I saw someone fall."

Noel rose, leaving the kitten to her milk, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I can't explain that, either. All I know for certain is there's nothing for you to worry about. This is an old house. It has a history. Sometimes that history gets a little close to the surface."

I started to answer, but then caught sight of the black Packard out of the corner of my eye. "They're back."

"I'd better take out an umbrella." He left the kitchen. I didn't follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note added 9/2/2016. Due to unforeseen circumstances, Chapter 11 will be delayed a week.
> 
> Note added 9/9/2016: Due to some newly-diagnosed medical issues, I need to reduce the amount of time I spend at the keyboard. It's nothing life-threatening, but it is in my hands and arms; and since the day job requires me to be at the keyboard, I have to cut back on the extracurriculars.
> 
> I'll update _Fidele_ when I can, but I can't promise a regular schedule.


	11. Dorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> This is an old house. It has a history. Sometimes that history gets a little close to the surface.

Saturday night, the storm had faded to a faint rumble in the distance and clouds on the horizon, headed out into the Gulf. I drove the truck into the city and parked near a bar called the Apple Barrel in Rene's neighborhood. I could hear music from the street, and when I went through the door I was greeted by the scents of smoked meat, sawdust, and beer, a press of bodies, and a trio made up of saxophone, cello, and drum kit on a little stage set off by green velvet curtains.

Angelique and Rene were seated at a small square table near the stage. I made my way to them, and Rene rose with a merry, "Sarge!" and shook my hand heartily with both of his. Angelique greeted me much more demurely and kissed my cheek. As they had before, though, her eyes darted to over my shoulder and her face took on a look somewhere between confusion and wonder, but then her eyes met mine again and she gave me a brief, though sincere, smile.

"I brought a friend for you to meet," she said into my ear once we had settled at the table again.

"Angelique," I began, "I appreciate the thought, but I don't--"

"There he is now," she said and my head whipped around to see a young man approaching our table, a pitcher of beer and four mugs in his hands. He was slight and slender, with dark hair that fell carelessly around his heart-shaped face, and crystal-blue eyes that met mine without faltering.

He smiled. I smiled back.

"This is Dorian Mayeux," Angelique said as he took the empty chair beside me. "We grew up together."

"Malcolm Carmichael." We shook hands, and then out of respect for the music were quiet for a while, sipping our beers. Dorian's and my eyes met more than once, and I was charmed at the way he would smile and faintly blush and look away again.

When the song had ended and the band left the stage, Dorian leaned close to me and said, "Where did you serve?"

"European theater," I said.

"Me, too," he said and I must have shown my surprise, because he smiled in a resigned sort of way and said, "I was a turret ball gunner in a B-52. Small build, you see."

"You hardly seem old enough to have been in the war at all."

"I was a little bit younger than I admitted to being," he said lightly, and I chuckled. "What brings you to New Orleans?" He said it the say Rene did, the drawling N'Awlins that I was growing to love.

"I'm a private tutor for a boy named Caleb Thibodeaux," I said, and the three of them exchanged a glance. "You must know the story, too."

"I know it," Dorian said. "I know Mr. Thibodeaux the elder, a little. I'm a clerk at the county court, and he still hears cases sometimes."

"Is he a good judge?"

Dorian sipped his beer, expression contemplative. "He's known for his harsh sentencing, especially on juvenile offenders, and he doesn't socialize with the clerks. What is he like at home?"

"He keeps to himself," I replied. "He only interacts with the rest of the family at suppertime. He hasn't tried to make friends with Caleb, as far as I can tell. Caleb is more of a possession than a family member. Emmanuel usually refers to him as either 'the boy' or 'my grandson.'"

"That sounds like the Judge Thibodeaux I know."

"And what do you know of Mr. Thibodeaux the younger?"

Dorian smiled to himself, his gaze dropping. "I've seen him in the Quarter a few times. He's very handsome."

"He is that," I said, and our eyes met again.

"But I wouldn't say I know him. I don't know anybody who would say they know him. I _would_ say his only friends were his brother and his sister-in-law, and everyone else came in a pale second. I would even say that without Simon, Noel Thibodeaux is a bit lost."

"That sounds like someone who knows him."

Dorian shrugged, looking away as the trio got back onto the stage. "You live in the same house as he," he said simply, but didn't follow up on the thought as the music resumed.

Between sets from the trio, I learned that Dorian belonged to an amateur photography club, that he was going to law school at Tulane and shared a house with five other students, and that he also didn't like to talk about the war. That last was fine with me; I'd noticed over the years that the more an ex-G.I. talked about his war experience, the less he'd actually done.

When the trio played their last set and the bartender said, "Last call!", we said goodbye to Angelique and Rene, and Dorian walked with me to the truck. He lingered as I unlocked the driver-side door, and I leaned against the truck instead of climbing in.

"It was lovely to meet you," he said, blushing faintly again. "I hope you'll come into the city more often."

"I think I might," I said. I placed my hand on the back of his neck and coaxed him closer, and he leaned against my chest.

"Rene warned me," he whispered as his gaze flitted between my mouth and my eyes, "you're fascinated with Noel Thibodeaux. I don't blame you. He's a mystery, and people love mysteries."

"Are you?" I said. "Are you fascinated with him?"

"He's like the moon," Dorian said. "Untouchable. You're -- you're here. I can touch you and you can touch me." He took my face in his hands and kissed me. "But not tonight." He smiled and stepped away, and I watched him go down the street until he was lost in the Saturday-night crowd.

Smiling myself, I climbed into the truck and drove back to Fidele, my thoughts full of Dorian and the conversations we would have the next time we met -- until I came into the house and heard soft piano music again.

I went to the music room, drawn along by the sound as surely as if it were a siren song and I a sailor, and saw that Noel was at the keyboard, his eyes closed as he pressed the keys.

Dorian was lovely, but as I gazed at Noel I realized he simply could not compare. Not his face, not his body, not his history -- what little I knew of it -- and certainly not the pull that I felt toward him, not when the pull I felt toward Noel was almost a tangible thing, like a rope pulling me to shore.

I stood in the doorway for a few minutes as I listened to Noel play. It was a classical piece rather than ragtime, and not one I recognized enough to name it. Still, it was beautiful, heartfelt, and the way Noel played it made me want to sit at his feet in adoration.

I turned to go when Noel said, still playing, "Did you have fun tonight?"

"Yes," I said. "We went to a place called the Apple Barrel. Good music, good beer." I added, "I met someone."

There was a pause. "Good."

"Did you and Caleb go to the movies?" I went into the music room and sat beside him on the piano bench.

"We saw the Disney picture, 'Alice in Wonderland.' Caleb enjoyed it, I think. He stayed awake until the end, at any rate."

"And you?"

He shrugged. "It was a kids' picture." Abruptly, he stopped playing and turned to me. "Would you come with us next time? I think we'd both like having you along."

I couldn't help but smile. "I'd be happy to. I like the movies."

We had another one of those moments where we gazed at each other wordlessly, eyes roaming over each other's face. Dorian was sweet and delicately lovely, but he didn't make me want to kiss him so badly my lips ached for a taste of him, not the way Noel did. I wanted to kiss him, I wanted to hold him, I wanted to ask him to play more music.

I said, "I wish you had come with me tonight."

"Then you wouldn't have met your someone."

"I still would have met him," I said. "But if you had been there, everyone would have understood if I wasn't interested in him."

"Weren't you interested in him?"

"Not as interested as I am in you."

"Malcolm," he whispered.

"I want to kiss you."

"Don't."

"I know." Still, I pressed my palm to his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed and he turned his head just enough to brush his lips against the inside of my wrist.

But then he pulled away. "Good night, Malcolm."

"If you came to my bed, I'd never turn you away."

He sighed. "Good night, Malcolm," he said more emphatically, so I hauled myself to my feet.

"Good night, Noel," I said and went upstairs.

It was late and I should have gone to bed, but instead I took out my sketchbook and drew a few simple panels of Sir Errant and Sir Tristan succumbing to their attraction. If I couldn't have Noel, at least Errant could have his perfect knight.

* * *

The next Saturday was a rainy one. Caleb was listless and yawning; breakfast eaten and his chores done (cleaning Tumulus's litter box with my help, tidying his toys) and the weather too wet to play outside, I collected his toy cars and suggested that he play with them while I helped Mrs. Bell make lunch in the kitchen. 

Caleb nodded, yawning again, and as we made our way to the kitchen I asked him, "Why are you so sleepy, little man? Did you wake up early?"

He only looked up at me a moment, then watched his feet as we climbed slowly down the stairs. Anything that couldn't be answered with a yes or a no tended to get ignored, until he got his hands on his crayons and paper and tried to draw an answer. Those didn't always make sense, as talented as Caleb was -- children are happy to explain their drawings, but of course Caleb could do no more than hand a drawing to me and look at me expectantly.

"Maybe we'll have you nap a little earlier than usual," I said, and again he shrugged, and yawned hugely.

The weather had been growing stormier all week, as Noel has warned me it would as the autumn progressed. This meant more time indoors, which also meant Caleb had excess energy in need of burning off. To keep Caleb from getting too restless, I made use of every open room that I could, from the music room to the library, Tumnus scampering after us or twining around our ankles. He was good with the kitten -- I never heard her squeal or hiss at him -- and it seemed Noel's experiment was successful. No more getting up in the night, and certainly no wandering outdoors alone. 

Still, this wasn't the first time he was unusually sleepy, and I wondered if there was something else keeping him awake at night -- maybe the same something that made my door creak and my room cold, and left deep red scratches on my sides and back. 

When we reached the kitchen I set up him in the corner with some unused pots and pans to make a city for his cars, and joined Mrs. Bell for our cooking lesson. Today's dish was hot roast beef sandwiches with au jus to dip them in, so she set me to slicing baguettes open for the leftover roast beef she would warm in the oven just before it was time to eat.

We chatted a bit, as usual. She told me the goings-on in her church -- who was marrying, who had died, whose children were causing their parents pride or strife -- and then I said, dropping my voice in the hope he wouldn't realize we were talking about him, "Do you ever notice any usual marks on Caleb at bath time?" and she frowned as she stirred the au jus in its pot.

"No more than the usual boyhood scrapes." These occurred on a daily basis -- Caleb was fearless, and as a result always had a bandage on an elbow or a knee. "Mr. Noel would never lay a finger on him, and Mr. Emmanuel --" She paused, her lips pressed together, and then said, "We would see to it that he wouldn't."

"No, of course Noel wouldn't," I said. I would put nothing past Emmanuel, but his threats to beat Caleb into talking were empty. As long as Caleb stayed out of his way, Emmanuel had nothing to do with him.

A sad state of affairs, I thought, given how he had essentially blackmailed Noel into bringing him here rather than living in the city; but given all that I had learned about the family, it made sense that Emmanuel would believe it was only right and proper that Caleb, his eventual heir, be brought up at Fidele.

I watched Caleb make a car drive up a sloping cookie pan to jump off the pot it was propped against, and said to Mrs. Bell, "If you do notice something, will you tell me?"

"Of course," she said. "And Mr. Noel, too."

"Of course," I said. Noel loved Caleb like his own child, but Noel was also unused to children and their needs, and possessed the Thibodeaux temper. More than once when their frustration with each other came to a head, I saw Noel close his eyes, uncurl his fists, and regulate his breathing to keep himself from yelling or worse. 

Caleb was not a perfect child. Like most children his age, when he was tired or hungry he got cranky, and he had days when he was just out-of-sorts. Since he couldn't express himself with words, his bad days resulted in throwing his toys or his food, crumpling his worksheets, or hiding under beds or in a wardrobe in one of the unused rooms. 

We kept these episodes from Emmanuel, even when we had to hunt through every wing of the house for Caleb. According to Noel, Dr. Dufresne said this was a way for him to grieve and we had to be patient, but I knew this was difficult to remember when Noel and Caleb glared at each other other with matching lowered eyebrows and set jaws.

Still, I left the discipline to Noel unless Caleb misbehaved badly during school hours. For small things, I had him sit in one of the school desks for five minutes without any paper or crayons. For bigger things, I would simply say, "We'll have to tell Uncle Noel about this," and it made either Caleb contrite -- which I would also tell Noel, to lighten whatever punishment Noel was considering -- or made him sulk. Noel vacillated between punishments that were too harsh or too light, so I advised him on what a five-year-old could handle, as did Dr. Dufresne. For the worst things, Noel usually decided on sending Caleb to bed without his half hour of radio; for the smaller, he agreed that a few minutes without toys or crayons was enough. And sometimes Noel merely held Caleb, even when he wept and struggled, and stroked his back and rocked him until Caleb calmed down.

When he wanted to play, the nursery was stocked with every toy a five-year-old boy could ask for. Caleb had a rocking horse and plastic swords with glass jewels in their hilts, stuffed animals and little wooden cars, green plastic soldiers and cap guns, an entire fleet of bathtub toys beyond your basic rubber ducky. He had a kite to fly when the weather was good, and rain boots and a slicker for when it was wet; watercolors, crayons, and reams of paper for us to practice writing and math as well as make pictures just for fun. Noel's firm had misprinted a letterhead a year or so before, and so Noel brought home boxes of paper for us -- better that it was put to use, he told me, then it sit in a supply room and take up space. Caleb covered pages and pages with drawings, not just his school assignments -- I would say, "If I have two apples and you give me three apples, draw me how many apples I have now," for example, and Caleb would painstakingly draw five apples -- but also the usual childhood subjects, his parents, the people in the house, Tumnus, the adventures of his favorite toys. 

He was a good child, really -- I don't want to paint him as a bad or spoiled one -- and very sweet, and there were far more good days than bad. He liked to sit in my lap while I read to him, he and Noel always gave each other good-night kisses, he put his arms around Willie's neck whenever Willie carried him somewhere -- usually up the stairs at the end of a long day, for there was a great many stairs in that house and Caleb's legs were still short -- and he would hug Mrs. Bell around her waist until she said, "Let me go now, child, I need to move."

What to do about the sleeplessness, though, I had no idea. He played without much enthusiasm as Mrs. Bell and I cooked, and she said, "What's your parents' school say about tired children?" as he yawned again, wide enough that it looked painful, and rubbed his eye.

"Naps," I said. "Or quiet time -- an hour or so with the lights low and soft music playing, so they can read or draw or just relax a little." That was a good idea, I thought, I should write to Dad for advice. "You don't hear him getting up at night at all?"

"No, Mr. Malcolm. Of course, I sleep soundly." She paused, then said, "I haven't told Mr. Noel this, but sometimes I wake up and Caleb's gotten into bed with me. The cat, too."

"He has," I said, looking at Caleb again. He was just pushing a car back and forth now as he lay on his stomach on the kitchen floor, his head pillowed on his arm. "And he doesn't do anything to indicate why?"

"No, sir. Bad dreams, I expect. His father had them, too."

"Noel didn't?"

She stirred the au jus. "Mr. Noel didn't sleep much, before he left home."

That much hadn't changed. Twice now since I'd come to Fidele, I woke in the night to the sound of jazz piano -- sometimes so soft I wondered at how I heard it, given my war-worsened hearing -- but aside from sitting up to listen for a while, I didn't disturb Noel as he tried to soothe himself to sleep.

I said, "If you don't need me I think I'll try to get Caleb to nap a little."

"Go on," Mrs. Bell said. "Lunch will be ready in an hour."

"Thanks." I went to Caleb and leaned on my cane to stoop down. "Hey, Caleb. Want to go back upstairs for a while?"

He blinked at me, frowning a little.

"Maybe even sleep some more before lunch?" I suggested gently. "You can bring your cars with you, if you want."

Caleb frowned more deeply and gathered the cars in his arms to hold them to his chest.

"We can bring your cars, and your Teddy, and Tumnus if she's agreeable." At his continued frown, I said, "And I'll sit with you, if you want."

He looked at Mrs. Bell, and then nodded and got to his feet. I put some of the cars in my trouser pockets so he could hold my hand as we went upstairs. I was slow enough that Caleb tended to jump from one step to the next when we were on the stairs together, but there was none of that today.

In his room, I put Caleb to bed with his cars and his Teddy, and Tumnus appeared from wherever she had been napping to curl against his side. I sat at his play table and took out my pocket sketchbook.

"Close your eyes, honey," I said. "I'll be right here."

He watched me as I started to draw, and then with a sigh squeezed his eyes shut like he thought sleep was another chore to get through. I sketched ideas for the comic -- maybe my knights should face a sorceress? Maybe a wounded king, like in Arthurian tales? -- with one eye on Caleb as he sighed and tossed, to the point that Tumnus got up in her most dignified, catlike manner and moved to the foot of the bed instead.

I was starting to think maybe a nap wasn't the best idea after all when my skin pricked, and the air in the room abruptly turned cold enough I could see my breath when I exhaled. I stopped drawing, didn't move at all, as Tumnus's ears perked and her eyes grew wide, and Caleb pulled the blankets over his head.

A shape appeared beside Caleb's bed, a vague outline of a woman, who bent over Caleb and passed her hand over him as if she meant to caress his hair. But where the other figure to do this had been tender and fatherly, there was nothing tender here -- it was possessive, as if she were claiming Caleb as her own child.

Tumnus arched and hissed. The sound broke the spell and shoved me to my feet, as I remembered my own dream and the cry of _Give me back my baby!_ and Rene's tale of poor, mad Charlotte. "Don't touch him!" 

The shape paused, and then looked at me with a featureless face that was nonetheless so full of hatred that I took a step back. The shape turned from Caleb and flew toward me -- and then through me, leaving me cold down to my fingertips.

For a moment I couldn't move, it was such a shock, but when Caleb peeked at me over the blankets I said, "Stay there," and stumped out to see where the shape had gone.

There was nothing in the passageway, nothing that shouldn't be there. Portraits of Thibodeauxes past hung on the walls. Copper tubes that brought hot water to the bathroom ran just above the skirting board. But when I exhaled my breath froze, something that never happened even on a rainy day such as this one, and I heard the distant echo of sobbing.

I went slowly down the passageway to the vestibule. The housemaids were in today, but I doubted either of them would sit in the vestibule to cry. Emmanuel was in his study and Noel was in the farm office, last I knew, and neither of them would shed tears where anyone could see them. These sobs were feminine, young-sounding, hoarse and broken-hearted.

The vestibule was empty, and the sobbing sounded no closer when I stopped at the top of the stairs. Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning flashed, and the lights flickered.

I took a deep breath, looked around to make sure I was alone, and said softly in French, "Charlotte, I'm so sorry." I paused and waited. The sobbing continued. "I'm sorry you lost your baby. But you're frightening Caleb. He's just a little guy, Charlotte."

The sobbing cut off abruptly. Thunder rumbled again. Footsteps ran up behind me. Thunder rumbled as a pair of hands shoved me as hard as they could.

I went tumbling down the stairs.

* * *

I blinked my eyes open to see Caleb kneeling beside me, his face red and tears streaming down his face. "I'm okay," I said and started to push myself upright, and I heard doors slamming open and footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Malcolm? Malcolm!" Noel said and knelt beside me too. "Don't move yet. What happened? Did you fall?"

"Someone pushed me," I said, not moving as we were joined by Alex, and Noel felt my ankles and my neck. "Someone pushed me from the top of the stairs."

"Who pushed you?" boomed Emmanuel from the passageway that led to his study, and Noel winced as Emmanuel joined us in the vestibule. "Was it the boy?"

"Father," Noel began.

Emmanuel grabbed Caleb by the ear. "I've had enough of this. The boy won't behave, won't be _normal_ , and the two of you encourage it. Well, enough! I'll make him talk."

"Mr. Thibodeaux--" from Alex, and another, more alarmed, "Father!" from Noel as Emmanuel started to drag a frightened, crying Caleb out of the vestibule.

Before he could go far, Noel snatched Caleb from Emmanuel's grasp and into his arms. Caleb wrapped his arms and legs around Noel and sobbed into his neck.

"It's okay, peanut, it's okay," Noel murmured to him, and snapped at Emmanuel, "Don't you fucking _dare_ lay a hand on him, old man."

"Spare the rod, spoil the child!"

"Bullshit!" Caleb made a little whimper, and Noel whispered to him, "Sh, peanut. It's okay." He said to Emmanuel, his voice softer but no less dangerous, "Touch him and I don't care what you think you know about me, I _will_ take him away and you will never see him again. Understand me? _Never._ "

Emmanuel stood there, his chest heaving and his face red, his hands fisting and unfisting, and he looked at Noel, Alex, and me one by one. He huffed and stormed back down the passage to his study.

Thunder rumbled and the rain pounded harder on the windows. Alex said, "Noel, I think we ought to get Malcolm somewhere he can rest a bit."

"I'm all right," I said. "Where's my cane?"

"I'll get it," said Alex and climbed the stairs to fetch it from where I'd dropped it. 

Mrs. Bell rushed in from the kitchen and held out her arms for Caleb. "I'll see to Caleb, Mr. Noel," she said, and Noel looked down at Caleb for his approval. "Come with me, sugar. Let's dry your tears."

"It's all right, peanut," Noel whispered to him. "I'll be close by. We need to look after Mr. Malcolm and make sure he's not hurt."

Sniffling, Caleb nodded and went into Mrs. Bell's arms, and she bore him off to the kitchen. Noel watched her go, frowning, and then came to me.

"Don't move yet," Noel said and started feeling my head. "If you have a bump we ought to get you to a hospital."

"I don't think I hit my head," I said, but stayed still so he could investigate my head and neck. 

"I don't feel any bumps. Move your fingers for me?" I wiggled them, and my toes too. Noel sat back on his heels and scrubbed his hand through his hair. "How do you feel?"

"Aching a bit, otherwise all right."

"Maybe we should bring him to your bed, Noel," Alex said. "It's closer to the stairs in case he need to call for someone."

A muscle twitched in Noel's jaw, but he said, "Yes, all right," and the two of them got me upright and up the stairs, to lay me on the bed in Noel's bedroom. 

Alex leaned my cane against the night stand. "Is there anything else you need me for today? I'm worried about Julia and the children being alone in a storm like this."

"Go on," Noel said. "We can finish next week."

Alex nodded, said, "Get some rest, Malcolm," and left. I murmured thanks and put my hand over my eyes. My body ached from the tumble down the stairs, and a dull throb pulsed through my head. 

Noel had seated himself on the bed beside me, and after a few minutes of silence except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, finally said, "You said you were pushed."

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"I don't know. Someone I couldn't see."

"Malcolm," Noel said seriously, "was it Caleb?"

I removed my hand from my eyes. "No. Caleb was in his bed. I heard someone sobbing and went to see who it was, and while I was on the stairs someone pushed me -- too high for Caleb to reach."

Noel sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair. "And you didn't see anything?"

I hesitated, then said, "Not in the vestibule. There was someone in Caleb's room before."

"There was? Who?"

"Charlotte Thibodeaux," I said, and Noel blinked like I'd snapped my fingers in his face.

He recovered in a moment, and laughed shortly. "Indeed," he said and rose from the bed. "You were planning to go into the city again tonight, weren't you? I can give your friends a call and tell them what happened."

"I wanted to meet Rene and Angelique again," I said. "Their number's in the small black notebook on my desk." 

He nodded and left me, and I sighed and tried to relax. Noel _knew_ something was going on; either he feared I would leave if he confirmed it, or he was of the belief that if he ignored it, it would go away. But if there was anything I had learned about ghosts in the last six years, they only went away if they felt like it.

I moved again, trying to get comfortable as the pillow crinkled under my head. I moved once more, then realized there was something stuck in the pillow case. I stuck my hand inside and pulled the something out.

It was the note I had written to Noel the second night at Fidele, where I promised to kiss him whenever he wanted. The folds of the note were worn, as if the note had been folded and unfolded many times, and the ink of my signature was blurred.

I couldn't help but smile, and as I heard Noel stop in the hall to place the phone call to Rene Gaspard, I put the note back where I'd found it.


	12. Simon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> "He's like the moon," Dorian said. "Untouchable. You're — you're here. I can touch you and you can touch me." He took my face in his hands and kissed me. "But not tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all Fidele's readers for your patience while I dealt with hand/wrist/arm surgery. I still need to take it easy for a bit and so won't be updating on a regular schedule, but I will try to update as often as my condition will allow.

I slept fitfully throughout the day, vaguely aware of the times Noel cracked open the door to check on me -- I assumed to make sure I hadn't vomited or fallen off the bed and couldn't call for help. 

Late in the evening, I woke to find Caleb's teddy bear tucked against my side. I sat up slowly and held the bear for a moment, smiling at the sweetness of the gesture -- Caleb really was an astonishing child -- and then got my cane, put on my shoes, and hauled myself to my feet.

As I went down the passage to Caleb's room, I saw his nightlight was on and the door was ajar. When I peered in, Noel sat at the foot of Caleb's bed as he watched Caleb sleep. He wore a serious, thoughtful expression on his face as he absently stroked Tumnus, nestled against his thigh. The kitten wasn't asleep, either -- her tail twitching slowly as she extended and retracted her claws, and her ears turned toward me when the floor creaked. 

I tapped on the door and Noel looked up. He didn't exactly smile, but the frown disappeared when he saw me.

"I think he needs this more than I do," I said in a whisper as I came into the room, and I gave Noel the teddy bear. 

He put it against Caleb's side. Still asleep, Caleb made a soft sound and wrapped an arm around the bear. Noel said in a similar low tone, "I think he was worried about you."

"He's a good kid." I said, after we both watched Caleb sleep some more, "Has he had bad dreams?"

"Not yet, but after the way Emmanuel treated him today it wouldn't surprise me."

The rain tapped on the windows, a sound I normally found soothing. "If you want my help to take Caleb away--"

"I can't," Noel said tiredly. "Every time I leave I have to truly ask myself if I'm coming back, but I always come back." He stroked Caleb's hair, and Caleb made a little contented coo. "It would only be worse if I tried to take him away. Emmanuel would drag my name through the mud."

"You're his son," I said. "Surely you know a few of the skeletons in his closet."

Noel's mouth worked a moment, then he said, "I do, but I also know it doesn't matter. He's a good ol' boy in a city run by good ol' boys. Anything I say about him only gets waved away."

He sounded so hopeless that I couldn't help myself -- I sat behind him on the bed and draped my arms over him so that I could hug him to me. He sighed, and then leaned back against me. He whispered, "I am glad you're here. Willie and Mrs. Bell do what they can, but at the end of they day, they're his employees."

"So am I."

"But you're not afraid of him. You're probably the only person in this house who isn't."

"He's nothing to be afraid of," I said. "He's a lonely, bitter old man who doesn't know how to be a father. That's more sad than frightening."

Noel huffed. "I've always been afraid of him. I can't think of many days when I haven't been afraid. People tell me I'm a hero because of what I did in the war and I want to tell them I just know how to live when you're always afraid."

"Bravery is acting in spite of your fear," I said, and he huffed again. "You were brave on the battlefield and you're being brave now."

We sat in silence for a while, listening to the rain and watching Caleb sleep -- or rather, Noel watched Caleb sleep and I watched Noel out of the corner of my eye. I wanted to do something, _anything_ , to get him away from Emmanuel, from this old house and its memories.

All I could do, I thought, was be on his side.

Tumnus stretched out with a yawn, and resettled herself against Caleb. Noel sighed again, and said, "Come with me," as he got up from the bed.

We crossed the vestibule. I thought we might return to Noel's room -- I hoped we would, in fact, because Noel had a very comfortable bed -- but he took me to my room instead, and shut the door behind us. 

I sat on my bed with exhaled. The day of rest had helped some, but I was grateful that the next day was Sunday and Caleb would be looked after by Noel and Mrs. Bell. 

"Malcolm," Noel said, "I don't want you telling Caleb there are ghosts. He only agreed to go to bed because I said I'd sit with him a while. I know this is a strange old house, but I don't want him jumping at every shadow."

"I don't have to tell him anything," I replied. "I think he knows more about what's going on in this place than you or I do. What _is_ going on in this place, Noel? Am I right -- is Charlotte Thibodeaux haunting Fidele?"

Noel sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair. "Charlotte Thiobodeaux died over two hundred years ago. Let the dead rest in peace."

"When the dead rest I won't disturb them. That doesn't seem to be the case here."

"Malcolm--"

"Is the bottle tree meant to catch Charlotte?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Noel said. 

"A ghost pushed me down the stairs," I said. "We're already beyond ridiculous."

"You slipped on polished wood," Noel said. "That's what I've told Caleb."

I frowned but said, "All right, Noel." Of course I wasn't going to tell Caleb ghost stories, but I had seen two ghosts near him now, and I didn't think there was much I could tell him that he didn't already know. 

And if the ghost of a madwoman was fixated on him, I had to find a way to protect him.

We both glanced up when thunder rumbled and the lights flickered. "Do you have matches for the candles?" Noel said. "The lights may go out again."

"I have a lighter," I said. "But I expect I'll go straight to bed."

"You might want a hot bath first," Noel said. "To relax the muscles, if nothing else." He started to open the door, then said, "I saw some of your comic while I was looking for your address book. You have a lot of black notebooks on your desk. Sorry for snooping."

"I don't mind. What did you read?"

He got a tiny bit of a smile. "Your two knights having, uh, a moment of privacy."

"Wish fulfillment," I said, gazing at him, and he looked away.

"Yes. Well. I enjoyed it more than the cartoon we saw last week."

"Thanks," I said, starting to smile.

"And I got through to your friend Rene. He seems very ... enthusiastic."

"That's Rene in a nutshell."

"He mentioned maybe coming to see you tomorrow."

"I'll be happy to see him. Is it all right if he does? Probably along with his fiancee. She's a lovely girl."

"It's all right with me. With Emmanuel, who knows?" He started to open the door, but once again stopped himself. "Do you need anything? Now that Caleb's asleep I might go to bed myself."

"No, I'm all right. Thank you."

Still, he lingered, and we watched each other until there was a crack of thunder, loud enough to make us both flinch. We smiled at each other in understanding.

"Noel," I said, "if you want to stay with me, you know I'll let you."

"I don't," he began, when thunder boomed, lightning crackled, and there was a popping sound as the light flared and went out. I felt in my pockets for my lighter, and managed to light one of the candles beside the bed without burning the tips of my fingers. 

Noel was still leaning against the door, and I saw him exhale when I lit a second candle. "Are you all right?"

"I'll be better when this storm has passed."

I brought him one the candles. "Here. Good night, Noel."

"Good night," he said quietly, and we gazed at each other a moment before he gave a tiny shake of his head and left my room.

Still weary and sore from the fall, I went straight to bed, but I lay awake for some time as the rain fell. 

* * *

Sunday morning was still gloomy and wet. I heard Noel, Emmanuel, and Caleb leave for Mass with their usual Sunday morning bustle, and lay in bed for a good fifteen minutes before forcing myself up. The soreness in my back and hips made me hobble like a man three times my age, and I thought wearily that it was not going to get much better any time soon. Still, I made my way to the bathroom at the end of the hall -- a true room for bathing, with a dressing nook, a floor mirror, and a high-sided copper tub on a pedestal, fed with copper pipes. I turned the taps to fill the tub with hot water, and sank in, hoping Noel's advice would help the aching. 

So far, I had spent my Sundays in the city, to eat at one of the little cafes that dotted the French Quarter, and write letters or draw as I watched the city go by. Today, I was far too weary and sore to stir from the house. 

Still, if my friends wanted to visit, I wanted to be able to receive them. I would keep my letters short -- I had already described the inhabitants of Fidele in detail to Dad and Mary Kate -- and reserve my energy for my friends. Since Noel had given permission for them to visit I wasn't worried about them being turned away, though Emmanuel tended to send anyone hoping to tour the house or the grounds packing, which I thought was a pity. Many of the grand old houses in the area allowed tourists to visit; even the ones that were still working farms allowed them on certain days of the week. But I doubted Rene and Angelique would ask for a tour; I would make coffee and maybe some biscuits, and we would likely stay in the kitchen where we could chat with ease.

The hot bath was soothing, as was the sound of rain -- torrential at times, when wind blew and the rain beat harder against the walls. I was sure Willie drove his charges carefully; his affection for Caleb and Noel was clear, and I thought he even bore some for Emmanuel. They must have known each other as young men or boys, and I thought Willie must care for Emmanuel because of that shared history and the way Emmanuel had been before the Great War, tender enough to court poor Fabienne, honorable enough to win the loyalty of his employees.

Perhaps he would have been a good father if he'd never gone to France, but my father had fought in the same war, the same trenches, and I had never feared him a day in my life. Of course, he had found the love of his life there, not lost her.

Well, I didn't want to make excuses for Emmanuel, and most days I didn't want to try and understand him, either. I wanted him to treat Noel better and not terrorize Caleb, and I found no reason to hide my disapproval when he didn't. Perhaps this was unwise of me, given that he was basically my employer, but wisdom is not one of my virtues.

I must have dozed off in the tub, because a sudden loud bang made me start. It wasn't thunder, and not a slamming door or even running footsteps -- it took me a moment of listening until I realized it was the sound of someone slamming shut the the cover of a piano. I climbed out of the tub -- the hot water had done its work, and climbing out was much easier than climbing in -- dried off and dressed, and went downstairs to the music room, though I thought -- hoped -- whoever had made that noise would be long gone by then. 

Like the library, this room had several tall glass windows, an impressive feat of engineering for a house built in the 1700s. On sunny days sunlight glowed on the polished wood, softened by sheer white curtains; on days like today, the room seemed muted, the white walls and delicate furniture shades of grey, as if they had been sketched and then erased and re-drawn.

The cover on the piano was closed. That sense I often had, of someone else in the room with me, made the hairs on the back of my neck prick and my shoulders twitch. I moved to the windows, where I could see the drive curve toward the carriage house. The grounds of Fidele were empty and still, all the farmhands and forestry students asleep or in church, or just staying out of the wet.

In the silence, I murmured, "Simon?"

There was another loud bang from the piano, as if it had been dropped from a great height. I whirled toward it, startled, and stumbled until I regained my balance with my cane. My breathing was loud and panicked in my ears.

Well, I had asked him to manifest himself. I couldn't be too upset when he actually did.

"Simon," I said, and cleared my throat so I didn't sound so hoarse and frightened. "Simon, it's all right. Noel's looking after Caleb the best he can. Don't be upset."

Silence. I didn't know what I expected to happen, really -- for Simon to show himself to me again, or for the ghosts in the house, because I was sure there were more than one by now, to suddenly dissipate? For nothing to happen was far more realistic.

"Noel sure misses you," I whispered, and the air, already cool from the storm, grew colder as if all remaining heat had been sucked from the room. I braced myself, but before there was another sound or vision, the black Packard pulled up the drive.

I exhaled. Warmth returned to the room, and I stood there for a moment more before turning away from the windows. Whatever Simon had wanted to tell me would have to wait for another time.

* * *

The rain cleared around noon, letting the sun first peep through the clouds and then finally shine strongly as they moved south. Willie set out the outdoor furniture so that we could eat lunch on the patio, though when I offered to help Mrs. Bell cook she shooed me away and told me to rest. 

I tried to relax in the sitting room, but eventually gave up and got my stationary, sketchbook, and pens to write letters in the library. There, the fire was lit and so were several candles. Noel was reading in one of the armchairs as Caleb played with Tumnus on the hearth rug. He has tied a piece of yarn around a piece of paper folded like a fan, for Tumnus to chase and pounce on. 

They both looked up when I paused in the doorway, and they both smiled -- Caleb widely, Noel mostly in the eyes. Caleb scooped up Tumnus and brought her to me, and I scratched her head.

"Thank you for giving me your Teddy," I said. "He helped me sleep quite well." Caleb beamed and hugged Tumnus, and went back to the hearth rug to play. I sank into the other armchair with a sigh.

"Still hurting?" Noel said, holding his place in the book with a finger.

"Less than I was. I took your advice and had a hot bath, and that helped a lot." I arranged my stationary on the sketchbook as a makeshift lap desk. "How was your morning?"

"Your usual Sunday," Noel said and resumed reading. "Well, our usual Sunday."

"Not exactly a day of rest and contemplation, I take it."

Noel huffed in answer, not looking up from his book. "Did your friends come by?"

"No," I said. "They must have had morning mass too."

"Most of the city does."

I smiled to myself, not offended by his dismissive tone, and started a letter to Mary Kate. 

Not twenty minutes had passed when there was the unmistakable sound of a car coming down the drive. I tucked my letters into my sketchbook and took up my cane, and met Willie at the great front doors. Willie helped me get one of the doors open, and I went down the front steps to greet Rene and Angelique.

When the door opened, though, out stepped Dorian Mayeux. He smiled at me, bashful, his head ducked. "Rene thought you might prefer a visit from me than from him." He reached into the back seat of his little car and brought out a round pan wrapped in tin foil. "Angelique sends her love and a strawberry pie."

I laughed, touched, and gave him a quick kiss. "I love strawberry pie. Come on, we'll see if Mrs. Bell deigns the pie worthy of eating."

Mrs. Bell did find the pie worthy, and Willie took away the extra place setting from the table when we sat down to lunch. Today it was baked ham, mashed potatoes, and green beans, the delectable scents fortifying me as Emmanuel subjected Dorian to his usual scrutiny.

"You work at the courthouse," Emmanuel said as he spread his napkin over his lap.

"Yes, sir," Dorian said. "I'm one of the court clerks."

"And how do you know Carmichael?"

Dorian glanced at me, and I said, "One of the men from my unit lives in the city. Dorian is friends with his fiancee."

"It's a small world," Noel observed, pouring a glass of milk for Caleb. 

Emmanuel looked skeptical, eying Dorian, and then harrumphed to himself and went about eating in his usual way, paying more attention to his food than to the rest of us.

"Where did you serve, Dorian?" Noel said, and we spent the rest of lunch talking about England and mainland Europe and the places we'd like to go and things we'd like to see, now that the world was at peace again. Caleb, who tended not to pay much attention to grown-ups' talk during meals, listened attentively, his eyes on Dorian. Dorian talked to him, too, which I was glad to see, even though Caleb only answered his questions with his usual nods and shrugs. 

Lunch eaten, including slices of strawberry pie with a dollop of fresh whipped cream on top, Dorian said, "I belong to an amateur photography club and I brought my camera. Would it be all right if I took some pictures of Fidele?"

"I'm all right with that," Noel said before Emmanuel could do more than inhale. 

"Outside," Emmanuel growled. "I don't want strangers ogling the interiors."

"Of course, Mr. Thibodeaux," Dorian said mildly, and I walked with him to fetch his camera from his car.

"I'm sorry about all of that," I said. "I think Emmanuel would be happier as a hermit in a cave than dealing with other people."

"I know," Dorian said as he took his camera case out of the trunk of his car. "We've actually spoken before. Either he didn't recognize me or he didn't want to admit he did."

The camera was a Kodak Brownie with a detachable flashbulb, which Dorian left in the case since we would be outside. "What do you want to see first?" I said as we ambled toward the garden.

"Let's just wander," Dorian said, so we followed the brick paths to find subjects for Dorian's camera.

"Do you ever use models?" I said as I lowered myself onto one of the benches under an oak tree and Dorian lay on the grass to photograph a particularly interesting clump of flowers.

"Sometimes," Dorian said as he focused the lense. "I can't always afford to hire professionals, but sometimes my housemates or friends volunteer." He glanced at me. "I would love to photograph you."

"Ah," I said with a laugh. "I doubt a crippled model would win you any prizes."

He lowered the camera to look at me. "People don't notice your limp as much as you think they do," he said, and pointed the camera at me. I exhaled but didn't smile as he clicked the shutter a few times. 

"But people do notice it," I said. "I see them looking."

"Or they look because you're tall, blond, and handsome," Dorian said and got to his feet. "They could think the same thing I thought the first time I saw you -- like you're the Prince Charming all the fairy tales talk about." He came to me and held my face in his hand a moment. "Though fairy tales are quiet on what to do when Prince Charming has already found a Prince Charming of his own."

"If you mean Noel, he's got more important things on his mind than romancing me."

"Hm." Dorian lifted the camera and focused on my face. "Lean back a little."

I rested my head against the tree trunk and looked at Dorian through my lashes. "I could be your Prince Charming."

Dorian laughed. "I like you, but I don't know if I want to battle for your affections."

"Who says it would be a battle?"

"The way he watched you at lunch said a lot." He held out his hand. "I don't mind, Malcolm. I like you, but I also know that whatever happens between you and me will depend on what happens between you and Noel Thibodeaux."

I took his hand and he hauled me to my feet. "Nothing's going to happen between me and Noel Thibodeaux," I said, but given the note I had found under his pillow, I wondered if that was true.

We ambled through the gardens for a while longer, until my leg started to ache and my limp grew more pronounced. When we reached the house we saw that Noel and Caleb were playing outside. Dorian took out his camera again to photograph them as Noel lay on the grass, holding Caleb up on his knees to make Caleb fly. 

He brought Caleb down again once he saw us, and sat up, shoving a hand into his hand to smooth it back into place. "Did you find good subjects to photograph?" he said, and caught Caleb in his arms when Caleb threw himself into Noel's lap. He gave Caleb several noisy kisses as Caleb squirmed and giggled, and then said, "Let me talk to Dorian and Malcolm for a few minutes, peanut. Where's your kitty? I bet Tumnus would like some company."

Caleb shook his head and put his arms around Noel's neck, and lay his head on Noel's shoulder. "All right," Noel said, stroking his back, and looked at Dorian again. 

"I found some great subjects," Dorian said. "The grounds are just beautiful."

"Thank you," Noel said. He hesitated and glanced at me, then said, "Do you develop your own pictures?"

"Oh, yes. I have a little dark room set up at my house."

"I've got a roll I need to have developed, but I'd rather not take it to a drugstore. It's a rather sensitive subject." He added, before Dorian could answer, "I'm happy to pay for the supplies and your time, of course."

"No need," Dorian said. "I get a discount anyway, since I buy in bulk." 

Noel took a roll of film from his trouser pocket. "I hoped you'd say yes."

Dorian put the roll in his camera case. "I could bring these back next week."

"That would be perfect." 

"What's the subject?"

"A cemetery out in the woods, on former Fidele land."

"We think it was a slave cemetery," I added.

"I want to have the land surveyed, so we can decide the appropriate path to take," Noel said. "We will probably never know exactly who is buried there, but we should still treat them with respect."

"Of course," Dorian said, and looked at me. "I should be on my way."

I walked Dorian to his car, and after he put his camera case away in the trunk we stood beside the car a moment, smiling but not daring to risk another kiss.

Dorian said, "I'll report back to Rene that you're well."

"Thanks. And tell Angelique thank you for the pie."

"I will." We shook hands, and Dorian said, "Good luck with whatever happens next."

"Nothing's going to happen," I said, and watched until he turned off the drive and onto the main road. I sighed heavily once he was gone, and headed back to the house. 

Noel and Caleb had moved to the swing under one of the great oaks, Caleb leaning against Noel's side as Noel read to him. I almost continued on my way to the house, but they both smiled at me so happily that I decided to join them. Noel rubbed my shoulder once I'd eased myself onto the bench, and I closed my eyes and slowly rocked the swing as I listened to him read.


	13. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> "People tell me I’m a hero because of what I did in the war and I want to tell them I just know how to live when you’re always afraid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in the end notes.

Dorian called me the house a few days later. “Can you come into the city on Sunday? I want to show you the photos I’ve developed before I give them to Noel.”

Sunday morning, I drove to the house Dorian shared with three other students near the Tulane campus. This part of the city felt sleepy and languid, as if everyone was sleeping off their Saturday night hangovers or repenting their Saturday night indulgences in church. Even the house had the sense of quiet that comes when its residents haven’t gotten out of bed.

I parked on the street and walked up to the front porch. I rang the bell, and a few minutes later one of Dorian’s housemates opened the door and gestured for me to come inside. “Dorian’s in the darkroom.” He took me through the house and rapped on the door of what had likely once been a butler’s pantry. The little hallway smelled strongly of chemicals. “Dorian! Malcolm’s here.”

There were fumbling sounds inside, and Dorian opened the door. “Thanks. Come on in, Malcolm.”

I squeezed myself into the tiny room. Dorian had folded blackout curtains at the broom if the doors to block out the light. There were no windows, fortunately, but there was a deep stone sink and many shelves in the cabinet, which was also where Dorian had hung the developed photos to dry. 

“Are you doing better since your fall?” Dorian asked me after we’d kissed hello. 

“I’m all right.” I leaned against the counter. “Caleb keeps me busy.”

“He seems like a sweet kid.”

“He is.”

Dorian took one of the photos from the line. “This is a picture I took of him and Noel.”

I took the photo and studied it in the dim light. It was a charming picture, Noel and Caleb playing together on the lawn of Fidele, and it took me a moment to figure out what was wrong. “What are these dark spots from?”

“I’m not sure.” Dorian handed me another. “I’ve developed that roll three times with the same result — not on every picture, but on a lot of them. And then there’a this.”

It was one of the photos Noel had taken of the lost graveyard — of the big bottle tree in the center of the cemetery, with another mysterious shadow, vaguely person-shaped and slightly transparent, standing at the foot of the tree. 

The hairs on the back of my neck pricked. I had sense a strangeness to the graveyard the night I found Caleb there, but nothing during the day. Obviously, even my new skill didn’t work all the time. Knowing that didn’t reassure me.

“I took this one yesterday.” Dorian handed me another picture from the line, this one taken in one of the cafes near the Tulane campus, just a couple drinking coffee and reading together. It was a sweet picture, and there were no smears or unusual shapes. “It’s from the same roll.”

“You developed this one too?” I asked.

Dorian nodded. “Right in this room. If it were just happening on one camera, or even just on one roll of film, I would think it was a flaw in the camera or in the film. But two different cameras and two different rolls – and not even the same problem on each roll – I don’t know, Malcolm. I’m hesitant to give Noel the pictures. I don’t want him to think I did a shoddy job.”

I looked through all the photos again. The photos Dorian had taken away from Fidele were lovely, sharp and clear. What took me by surprise was that a half-dozen of the pictures were of Noel, Simon, Grace, and Caleb, taken the previous Christmas. Noel had taken most of the pictures, as they were mostly of the little Thibodeaux family — unwrapping presents, singing at the piano as Simon played, Caleb playing with this toys. But Grace had gotten the camera away from Noel enough times to take pictures of the two brothers together, as they blew out candles on a birthday cake or drank from wine glasses in unison, or Simon’s arm around Noel’s shoulder as they leaned against each other in a quiet moment.

They were such a happy family it brought a lump to my throat. Dorian said softly, “Those were on the roll Noel gave me.”

“I know he’ll want these.”

“Of course. But he offered to pay for the supplies and I don’t feel like I can accept it in good conscience.”

“I’ll tell him that,” I said. “He may want to pay anyway.”

Dorian murmured, “Well, he’s a decent chap,” and glanced at me from under his eyelashes. “Can you stay a while today?”

“I can,” I said, “can we bring these?”

“Of course,” Dorian said and got a manila envelope to store the photos safely. 

We went to a nearby cafe for breakfast. New Orleans reminded me of San Francisco this way — we were never outside of walking distance to a good place to eat. We sat at one of the outside tables where we could enjoy the sunshine and the autumn chill, and Dorian took the photos out of the envelope again. He frowned as he thumbed through them. “I could ask one of my friends to redo one of the rolls,” he said.

“Don’t,” I said. “The problem isn’t in the development or even on the film. It’s something else.”

He looked up at me. “What is it?”

I was quiet as a waiter brought us tiny cups of strong coffee, and had a sip. The acrid flavor reminded me of France. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Dorian gave me a slight smile. “I’m a New Orleans native, cher, going back eight generations. I believe in a lot of things. You think these shapes are ghosts?”

“I think something’s going on at Fidele. I’m pretty sure the house it haunted.”

Dorian neither looked shocked nor laughed. He simply shrugged a shoulder. “Most of the old houses are, or so their stories go. Slavery, wars, Reconstruction … there’s been a lot of death ’round here, and a lot of it was violent. Ghosts are part of the landscape.” He turned the Christmas pictures toward me. “But not here. This was a house full of life.”

I had to swallow again. It was, and from all i’d heard Simon and Grace had done everything they could to keep it that way, to raise Caleb in a loving, happy household. And they’d died anyway.

I put the photos anyway. Dorian watched me, and said, “You really care for them.”

“It’s hard not to care for Caleb,” I said. “He’s a good kid in a tough situation, and I’m responsible for him.”

“I don’t mean just Caleb — I mean Noel, too.” He toyed with his coffee cup. “Malcolm, I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

“Dorian—”

“You’re always going to be thinking of Noel Thibodeaux,” Dorian said, and I couldn’t deny it. “I like you, but no one wants to come in second to their lover. If you ever get him out of your system, come look me up. But until then—” He shrugged and looked away a moment. “I think we should just be friends.”

“Angelique will be disappointed.”

“But you won’t,” he said. “Proving my point.”

“I guess I have some things I need to figure out.”

He pushed the envelope across the table to me. “Take these to Noel. He can have the pictures I took of Fidele. I don’t think I’ll do anything with them.”

“You can come out any time and try again.”

“Maybe,” Dorian said, and the waiter came then with our omelettes and beignets.

* * *

By the time I returned to Fidele, the family had returned from church and Caleb had changed out of his Sunday best so he and Noel could play outside. Noel had loosened his tie and taken off his suit jacket, and when I came up the drive they both stopped what they were doing — marbles, I suspected, or looking at bugs — to wave at me. I waved back, parked the truck in the carriage house, and came around to the garden to see what they were up to.

They had been playing outside for a while, by all appearances — the grass was littered with crayons, toy soldiers, block, paper airplanes — and Noel smiled and gave me a What can you do? sort of shrug as I surveyed the mess.

“I think Caleb needs a playhouse.”

“I think you’re right.” I lowered myself onto the nearest bench — at least they had chosen a spot that got shade from the morning sun — and Caleb ran to me to show me his latest pictures. He had not drawn the man in brown pants and a red sweater lately, and I hoped that meant he hadn’t seen his father’s ghost. Today he had pictures of Tumnus to show me, which I duly admired, and he scampered off again to play.

Noel moved from the grass to sit beside me. “How was your morning?”

“Not bad,” I said. “Dorian developed the pictures.” I gave him the envelope of photographs. “There are some strange shadows in some of them. He said he developed them a few times and the shadows were always there.”

Noel glanced up at me and took out the photos, and began to thumb through them.

I added hastily, “He also developed the entire roll you gave him.”

“Oh,” Noel murmured as he came to the Christmas photos. He looked through them, frowning, and I watched his face.

“I know it’s hard to see pictures like that after a long time,” I said when he didn’t speak.

“Don’t look so worried.” Noel put the photos back in the envelope. “I don’t think Caleb should see these just yet.”

“All right,” I said, and Caleb ran to us again and grabbed our hands to pull us off the bench. Just as well – Noel didn’t want to talk about any of the pictures, and at the moment, neither did I.

Storm clouds gathered all afternoon, which was not unusual. Mrs. Bell took Caleb for his afternoon nap, and I got my sketchbook and pencil for work on the comic a little. Noel shut himself in the library as the afternoon grew darker, so I took myself to the sitting room and turned on the radio.

And then turned it right off again, because all I could get was static. We were in for another thunderstorm, I supposed, and the thought made me wish Noel felt more social or even that I could impose on Mrs. Bell for another cooking lesson, just so I could have some company.

The house was so quiet I could have believed I was alone. I bound my pencil to the sketchbook with a rubber band, and was about to haul myself up to find somewhere else to pass the afternoon when the silence was broken by the sound of sobbing.

It was not the faint, echoing sound of previous sobs, though. It was deeper, rougher, so human-sounding I got up as fast as I could and went out into the vestibule.

It was coming from the library. Of course it was – who else had cause to cry with such grief today?

Still, I hesitated. Noel and I talked sometimes, but at this point he knew more about me and my family than I knew about him.

He was still weeping. I tapped on the door, and opened it without waiting for him to bid me enter. “Noel?”

He was sitting at the long table, and hastily wiped his eyes. “Yes? What?”

“I thought you might want some company, with the storm coming.” I leaned my hip against the door frame. “And even if you don’t, I do.”

Noel looked at me as if he couldn’t quite comprehend the question, then he inhaled resolutely. “Do you want to go for a drive?”

“Sure.” An odd request, but it was better than sitting here and cringing every time thunder struck.

Noel put away his papers in his briefcase and rose from the table. “I’ll be right back.” He went up the stairs with the briefcase, and I waited in the vestibule.

Outside, the sky was darker still but while the air was moist it was not yet raining. We didn’t speak as we got into the Jaguar, and Noel tore out of the carriage house, far more reckless than I had ever seen him drive.

* * *

Somewhere on the road through the new forest, Noel pulled the Jaguar over and turned off the engine. I watched him as he almost spoke several times.

Finally, calmly, staring straight ahead, he said, "We didn’t celebrate Christmas when we were growing up. Or our birthday. Not until we were out of school and making our own lives, and even then – during the war, my unit would do a little something for Christmas since we usually got a Red Cross package, but I never told anyone it was my birthday, too.

“Simon may have celebrated and just not told me about it, but it wasn’t until he and Grace were married that she started making sure we had a birthday party on Christmas Day. It was never … an easy day.”

I watched him, his stoic face, his full mouth. 

“Emmanuel used to beat me.”

I said nothing. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

He said, “It started when I was about three. It wasn’t much at first. Boxing my ears. Spankings. Slaps. He was always careful not to hit me where people could see the bruises but the whole household knew. Mrs. Bell used to tell me I had to be good, I had to be so good, so I didn’t make him angry.” He stopped. A muscle fluttered in his jaw. “It didn’t matter whether I was good or not.”

“Noel,” I whispered.

“He never hit Simon,” Noel said fiercely, looking at me at last. “I never resented Simon for it. I knew I deserved it, every bruise, every cut. I’d killed our mother, after all.”

“Noel, no.”

He looked away again. The wind rustled the trees around us.

“Then on our seventh birthday – Christmas Day – I don’t remember what I did to set him off, wished him Merry Christmas, maybe – he took off his belt –”

He stopped again and swallowed hard. I reached over to take his hand, and he let me wind our fingers together.

“He didn’t stop until Simon put himself between us. I remember that better than any of the rest of it – Emmanuel towering over him and Simon with his chin stuck out, and he said, ‘If you hit him one more time I’ll take him away and we’ll leave you forever.’”

I said, “That’s what big brothers are supposed to do. They’re supposed to protect you.”

“They’re not supposed to have to do that from your own father when they’re still children themselves.” He gave me one of his hollow smiles. “We were taken away for a while after that. A hospital, then a foster home. I would have been perfectly happy never to set foot in Fidele again, but Emmanuel has powerful friends and they made the family court give us back. Not long after that I was sent away to boarding school without Simon.” He looked at me again. “He could always find a way to punish us.”

For a moment or two I didn’t move or speak. My heart ached for him, for the suffering he had endured from such a young age and the damage it had done to him inside and out; but there was admiration for him, too, because he had managed to emerge from it as a strong and amazing man.

I probably should have said something to that effect. Instead, I surged across the seat and kissed him.

He made a muffled sound and kissed me back, holding me by the shoulders. The Jaguar was not made for two men, both over six feet tall, to tangle together in the front seat, but still I fit between his thighs when he wrapped his legs around my hips.

We kissed, desperate, hungry, until I pulled back, gasping for breath. We looked at each other. The storm clouds covered the sky entirely and there were no lights this deep in the bayou, but I could see his wide eyes, his parted lips, the flush in his cheeks, the flutter of his pulse beating hard in his throat. I kissed his neck and Noel shivered in my arms.

“Malcolm,” he said but that was all – my name a soft sigh, like the sound of surrender.

“Let me make you feel good.” I sucked his earlobe.

“Yes,” he said simply and captured my mouth, his hand twisting into my hair. “Yes, Malcolm.”

I pushed his T-shirt up his body and kissed his stomach and his chest, and he lifted his arms so I could push his shirt over his head. It left his hair tousled, beautiful, and I pushed my hands through it as I tipped his face up for another kiss.

My right leg started to spasm; I groaned in frustration and pulled away again. “I can’t stay in this position,” I said apologetically, and Noel huffed a laugh.

“You get how you need to be, sunshine,” he said in a growl that made me shiver. I sat up in the passenger seat and pulled Noel to me so he straddled my lap. His upper body was bare and I ran my hands over his skin hungrily as I gazed up at him, and then I kissed his body, the crisp curling hair on his chest and the path down his belly. Noel held onto my shoulders, moaning quietly, and then his hand fisted in my hair as I undid his belt and his trousers.

“D’you want me to stop?” I muttered as I kissed his hip bones.

“No, God, no. Don’t stop.”

I pulled his trousers down his hips. His prick was hard, already leaking from the tip, and I ran my thumb over the head to feel Noel tremble. He did, to my satisfaction, and he shoved his hand deeper into my hair.

“Malcolm,” he said, insistent, and I didn’t tease him – I dipped my head and took him in, my arms wrapped around his thighs. He rocked into my mouth, his moans echoing through the trees, his fingers moving through my hair and scraping lightly over my scalp.

I could have stayed there all night, tasting all the flavors of his skin, enjoying the weight of him on my tongue, but it seemed like only minutes before he was gripping my shoulder and gasping, “Malcolm, Malcolm.” I took him deeper and swallowed around him, and he shouted as come shot down my throat. I drank his come greedily, unable to keep back the yummy sounds that escaped me at the flavor of him.

I pulled back and kissed his stomach, just below his navel. He ran his hand through my hair and tilted my face up, and gazed at me with eyes that seemed to glitter in the dark. He swept his thumb over my lips. “Such a sweet mouth,” he murmured and kissed me. He pushed me back against the driver side door and I grinned up at him as I hastily undid my jeans. He ripped my shirt open, buttons bouncing everywhere, and scraped his teeth over my chest. I arched up to him, my feet pressing against the passenger-side door, and he pushed down my jeans. “Christ, you’re enormous everywhere,” he muttered and took me into his mouth.

I gripped the top of the door. He sucked me hard, his arms wrapped around my hips, and he didn’t try to hold me down or hold me back but let me fuck his mouth, fast and rough and messy.

I grabbed his hair as I came, feeling as if I’d been sent into orbit, and only eased up when I settled back into my skin. Noel watched me, unsmiling, and tasted his lips. 

“Hey,” I said when I had my breath back.

“Hey,” he answered and buttoned my jeans. “Sorry about your shirt.”

“I have others,” I replied and stretched my arms. “Hey,” I said again, “c’mere,” and pulled Noel to me. He lay his head on my chest with a sigh, and I combed my fingers through his thick, soft hair until he finally relaxed and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: child abuse related by adult survivor.


	14. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> I probably should have said something to that effect. Instead, I surged across the seat and kissed him.

A moment later, the sky opened and we were drenched with rain. Noel cursed and clambered out of the Jaguar so he could unbuckle the fabric roof and get it in place. I tried not to laugh at his fumbling, and wrapped myself around him when he climbed back in, soaked and shivering. I rubbed his arms and kissed raindrops from his face until he muttered, "All right, all right," and tucked his head against my neck.

We lay in silence for a while as we listened to the tick-tap-tick of the rain on the Jaguar's roof. Noel stroked my chest and I rubbed my lips against his hair. I could feel the steady thump of his heart. His body was solid in my arms. As I held him his trembling subsided.

He whispered as he stroked my chest with his thumb, "I didn't plan this. I wanted to talk to you away from -- all that -- but I didn't plan this."

"I'm not complaining." He chuckled dryly, and I said, "Are you all right with this?"

Rain tapped on the windows, louder than before in Noel's silence. My hand rested on the space between his should blades where I could feel him breathe. Finally, soft, "I'm not sorry this happened. I've wanted you since the moment I laid eyes you. But there's a reason I don't have sweethearts, Malcolm. I can't take the risk."

"You can't live in fear of your father forever."

"It's more than that."

"What risk are you taking?" I tipped up his head -- even in the dim light I could see the trouble in his face, the sorrow in his eyes. "Is it losing your job? Your reputation?"

"My job doesn't care who I fuck," Noel said. "And I don't give a fuck about my reputation."

"Then what are you so afraid of losing?" He gazed at me, and I stroked his full lower lip with my thumb. "Noel. Tell me."

His eyes searched my face. "You've got a big family, don't you? Lots of cousins?"

"A ridiculous amount," I said. "There are Carmichaels all over northern California."

Noel nodded slowly. "My family isn't like that. One child, maybe two, and then the wife dies. Branches have died out after a generation or two. We're going to die out entirely unless Caleb has kids."

"I saw that in the family Bible."

"You've looked in the family Bible?"

"I was curious," I said. "And it's a beautiful book."

He nodded again, still looking troubled, and said, "So you've seen how spectacularly unlucky my family is in love."

"So be the one to break that streak." I was still stroking his mouth, and I felt him start to smile.

"It's not that simple." He paused, blinking slowly as I stroked his mouth. "You should be with that Dorian boy, Malcolm. He's sweet, and he has far less history to contend with."

"He's very sweet," I said, "but he's not you."

Noel looked even more pained. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"I'm asking for you. Noel Thibodeaux, who's like the moon."

"Like the moon?" He raised an eyebrow.

I smiled back. "Untouchable, or so I'm told." I ran my palms over his cheeks. "But I know you're not untouchable. You're not only beautiful, but you're also kind, and a little bit lonely, and you have the sweetest lips I've ever kissed."

His eyelids dropped a moment as if he would let me soothe him, and then he kissed my mouth and sat up. "We should get back."

I sat up too, but put my hand on his knee. "Noel." He looked at me, his eyes still troubled. "I'm on your side. You know that, right?"

He studied my face, and then leaned over to kiss me, light and quick. "I know." He started up the engine and pulled back onto the road.

* * *

We were both soaked through by the time we got back to the house. No one saw us arrive; the house was as quiet as if everyone were still at church, though there was a fire crackling in the great fireplace at the end of the dining room. Noel and I glanced at each other, and then went to our separate rooms.

I stripped off my wet clothes and took out dry ones, but instead of dressing I lay on my bed in my shorts, buzzing under my skin at the memory of Noel's mouth.

I was at a loss, truly. I'd wanted him from the first moment I saw him, but that wasn't unusual. The world was full of beautiful men, and I'd had my share -- before the war, during, and even since. I learned the names of a few of them, but most, we were ships in the night, and I didn't want it any other way. Oliver was an exception, though I could see now that we were distant how I wanted what he represented more than the man himself. He was a family man, stable; he had children he adored, and a place in the world; things I increasingly wanted for myself after years of telling myself I didn't need anything but a roof over my head and time to draw.

Noel made me want to break all my rules. I had spent so many years protecting my heart against being broken again, I didn't know what to do know that someone new had found his way in.

Before I could think about this further, though, I heard music coming from the nursery. It sounded like one of Caleb's records, a French children's song, only the speed was strange--too fast, then too slow -- and if I could hear it, it had to be so screamingly loud that it was painful to whoever was in the room.

Hastily I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and went down to Caleb's room. As I thought, there was a record on Caleb's little player, playing at a speed that made it sound like screeching instead of music. Caleb cowered on his bed, Tumnus in his arms, whose ears were alert and eyes were wide and tail was a stiff brush.

I knocked the needle off the record yanked the cord from the walls, and scooped up Caleb and the kitten in the sudden silence. They both were shaking, Caleb breathing hard as if he had been running up and down the stairs, his eyes fixed on the record player. "Caleb," I said. "Look at me, Caleb."

He dragged his eyes away to meet mine, and at that he slumped limply against me. "It's okay," I said. "It's okay. You're safe."

Tumnus meowed and squirmed out of Caleb's arms, and ran out the door the moment he let her go. Rather than chasing after her as I thought he would, Caleb put his arms around my neck and hid his face in my chest. I patted his back and whispered to him again that he was safe, he was okay, while I searched my pockets for a handkerchief. I did't have one, of course -- I never seemed to when I needed one. My shirt was not damp, to my surprise -- he was frightened, but not to the point of tears.

"That was weird, wasn't it?" I said after a few minutes. "Like your record player was broken?"

Caleb looked up at me. His eyes were clear, rather than red and wet, and there was a startlingly determined look on his face, far more stern than one normally sees on a five-year-old.

I said, "Was the scary lady here again?"

Solemnly, Caleb shook his head. He plucked at my shirt.

"Was it someone else?" I said. "Someone you couldn't see but knew was here?"

He shook his head again.

"You can see this person?"

Slowly, he nodded.

"What does he look like?"

Caleb shook his head, then rubbed his eyes with his palms. He slid down from my lap and held out his hand to me. I put my hand in his, and he tugged me up and led me out of the nursery to the kitchen, where we found Mrs Bell cooking supper and Tumnus watching her, her tail twitching. Mrs. Bell often turned up her nose at Tumnus -- cats belonged outside, in her opinion -- but she was not above sneaking tidbits into Tumnus's food dish, either.

I got Caleb's paper and crayons, and he sat at the breakfast table to draw. Mrs. Bell put me to work snapping green beans. She had a little radio in the kitchen tuned to a gospel station, and she hummed and swayed as she cooked. Tumnus twined around her ankles, purring, and she said, "Get on, now, cat."

After a while Caleb put his crayons down. He frowned at his drawing, and then looked up at me, his lips pressed together in a childlike expression of deep thought. He pushed his paper across the table to me.

I put aside the bowl of beans and picked up the drawing. In it, I could clearly see the figures meant to be Tumnus and himself and his bed and his record player, but there was another figure -- small, dark-skinned, with braids sticking out from its head like one often saw little girls wearing in the city.

As I studied it, Caleb slid down from his chair and leaned against my knee. I picked him up. "This is you," I said, pointing to the picture, "and this is Tumnus." I pointed to the girl. "Is this the ... other person?"

Mrs. Bell came over to see. "Looks like me when I was his age."

Caleb took her hand for a moment, but then looked at me in expectation. I patted his back as I tried to think of how to handle this -- it did not surprise me at all if there were yet another ghost in this house, given all the experiences I'd had so far and what I'd seen Caleb experience, to the point that I was sure more had happened than Caleb could tell us about.

But Noel didn't think Caleb knew about the ghosts. Mrs. Bell wouldn't want me to ask about it, either.

"Maybe he saw a picture of you when you were a girl," I said to her.

"That's unlikely," Mrs. Bell said. "There aren't many pictures of me before I came to Fidele." She went back to the stove. "But there are plenty of other girls he might have seen and wanted to draw."

"That's true," I murmured, and pulled over the crayons and paper so Caleb could draw some more without leaving my lap. "That's a good drawing, Caleb. Why don't you draw us another, to show Uncle Noel?"

Caleb looked at me, and then picked up a blue crayon and started drawing.

I said abruptly, "Where's Noel?"

"I thought he went out with you," Mrs. Bell said.

"He came back with me, too. Did he go out again?"

"He must have," Mrs. Bells said. "Are you finished with those beans, Mr. Malcolm?"

"They're done," I said, and handed her the bowl. That had to be why Noel hadn't come to check on Caleb when the music got so loud -- he wasn't here to hear it.

That troubled me almost as much as the record player.

"Caleb, let's set the table," I said, and Caleb put down his crayon and slid from my knee.

The table was set and supper was almost ready when the front doors opened and in came Noel, wearing his overcoat and carrying an umbrella. Caleb ran to him as he was shaking out the umbrella on the porch, and Noel scooped him up with one arm. "Hey, peanut," he said and smiled when Caleb kissed his cheek. "Did you miss me?"

Caleb nodded and put his arms around Noel's neck. Noel hugged him and looked at me, eyebrows raised in question.

"A strange thing happened," I said. "I'll tell you later. Where did you go?"

"I went for a walk," Noel said. "I needed to be outside." He put the umbrella in the umbrella stand by the door and said to Caleb. "I need to put you down for a minute so I can take my coat off."

Caleb nodded reluctantly and let Noel set him on his feet, but clung to Noel's leg as soon Noel took off the coat. "Must have been a bad thing," Noel murmured. He said to me, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I said. "Are you?"

Noel hung his coat on the coat rack. "I'm a little tangled," he said and picked up Caleb again. "We can talk later. It's time to eat." He bore Caleb into the dining room.

* * *

The rest of the evening was as usual. Emmanuel's eyes darted between Noel and me a few times, but he didn't say if he noticed something was different between us. After supper, Caleb listened to his half hour of radio, and then Mrs. Bell took him to give him a bath. Emmanuel shut himself up in his study, and I said to Noel before he could disappear into the library, "I need to show you something," and we went into the kitchen, where Caleb's drawing paper and crayons were still on the breakfast table.

I gave Noel the drawing Caleb had made, of himself, Tumnus, and the little girl. Noel inhaled sharply at the sight of it, then put his face in its usual neutral expression and said, "What does this mean?"

"I don't know. His record player was playing strangely until I unplugged it -- too loud, too slow and then too fast -- and it frightened him. Really frightened him."

"I'll have a look at it," Noel said and put the paper down. "It must be broken."

"Noel --"

"Dr. Dufresne says children often have imaginary friends,"Noel said. "That's all this is."

"No imaginary friend could do this," I said. Noel's only response to that was for his jaw to clench a little bit, and I said, "You know what caused this."

"An imaginary friend," Noel said firmly. "Maybe he needs to spend more time with other children. I'll ask Alex if his offer for Caleb to play with his son still stands. It's probably best to start small, don't you think?"

"I suppose so." He nodded. His hand rested on the back of a chair, and I put my hand on top of it. "Where did you go?"

"I went for a walk."

"In the rain?"

His fingers tensed, and then tapped the wood a few times. "I wanted to go to the graveyard but it was raining too hard."

"Noel," I began.

His eyes met mine defiantly. "Sometimes I need to talk to my brother."

"You can talk to me."

"I can't talk to you about _you_."

Well, he had me there. "I hope you don't regret it."

"I don't know what I feel right now." He looked exhausted -- defeated, even -- and I ached for him even more, longing to give him all the comfort my body could provide.

"Come to me tonight," I said, moving close enough to him that I could see the shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheeks. "Let me take care of you."

"If anyone saw me in your bed -- if _Emmanuel_ caught us --"

"I'm not afraid of him," I said.

Noel sighed, pulled his hand gently from under mine, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "If it were just me, I wouldn't care what he knows or thinks he knows," he said. "But it's not just me. What I'm afraid of is what he would do to Caleb given half the chance. God, Malcolm, this is hard on me, too."

I took his face in both hands, and chased his gaze when he tried to look away. "Let me help you," I said. "Let me comfort you. I can be discreet."

"We agreed to keep our hands off each other."

"And then today happened." I smiled, but he didn't.

"I want to check on Caleb. Let me go, please."

I sighed and dropped my hands, and took up my cane. "At least you're honest about why you won't sleep with me. Thank you for that."

"If I could," Noel said quietly, "I would do things to you that would make you blush to think about them later. But it's not going to happen." He left the kitchen.

"Promises, promises," I said to the empty room, and went to my own room, yearning for Noel even more. I had hoped that having him once would be enough, but it only sharpened my hunger for him rather than sated it.

Well, I had agreed to this. I had to honor the agreement, no matter how difficult.

Restless, I took up my sketchbook and drew a quick scene between Sir Errant and Sir Tristan, in which they exchanged heated kisses in a hayloft. But then in the next panel, Sir Tristan said, "What about the prince?" and I put down my pencil as his words resonated with me.

The prince, of course, was my comic's version of Oliver, held captive in a tower until Sir Errant rescued him. Now that they were apart, and likely parted for good, Sir Errant was starting to entertain thoughts of a future with Tristan, but of course Tristan would want to know what sort of rival he had for Errant's heart.

I didn't have an answer, not for Tristan, not for Noel.

I left Errant's reply speech bubble blank and shut the sketchbook.

* * *

The rain continued, and with it, my wakefulness. I knew that Caleb had Mrs. Bell nearby and Noel would look in on him, and of course, Tumnus slept beside Caleb every night -- still, I got out of bed and put on my dressing gown, and went to the nursery to make sure all was well.

What I found was that his little bedside lamp was on, and he, Tumnus, and Noel were curled together, sound asleep in his bed. The book Noel had been reading to him was still open in Noel's hand. For a moment I watched them sleep, and then I gently took the book from Noel and put it aside. I spread the spare blanket over them and turned off the light, petted Tumnus, and went back to bed.


	15. Samuel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> "God, Malcolm, this is hard on me, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mild drug use.

Caleb refused to sleep alone the next night, and the night after that; all week, in fact, he would not go into his room at bedtime unless someone else was with him. Mrs. Bell bathed him and got him into his pajamas, and after that Noel took over to hear his prayers, read him a story, and sit with him until he fell asleep. When I got up in the night myself, as I often did, I found Noel either asleep in Caleb's bed with Caleb in his arms, or on the floor beside his bed on a makeshift bedroll.

I offered to sit with Caleb at night, but Noel shook his head. "You look after him all day. I don't mind looking after him at night." Still, even after a few days I could see the weariness that settled on him; neither of us slept much, but now even the few hours he was able to snatch were not restful, and he moved slowly, no doubt stiff from sleeping on the floor.

Thursday night, after Mrs. Bell took Caleb and Emmanuel was in his study, I said to Noel, "Let's go for a walk," and with a small, mostly-in-the-eyes smile, he said, "Let's."

We left the house for the gardens. The moon was out, casting the gardens in a silvery light. We walked near each other, bumping a few times and murmuring, "Sorry," until Noel offered his arm. "This is not a statement on your ability to walk."

I huffed -- I hated it when people treated me as if I were fragile -- but took his arm anyway. "Aren't you worried about Emmanuel seeing?"

"No," Noel said. "Even he can't object to chivalry."

"Maybe I should have suggested a drive instead."

"Maybe." Noel cut a look at me, and I smiled to myself. "I want to take Caleb to the pictures tomorrow night. Would you like to come?"

Rene and Angelique had invited me to join them in the city, as they did every Friday night, but this was a much more appealing offer. "I'd love to."

"We probably ought not stop on the way," he said mildly, and I smiled to myself again. "Saturday morning he's playing with Alex Christie's son for a few hours, so I don't want to keep him up late."

"About that," I said. "You can't keep going on so little sleep, Noel."

"I slept less than this during the war."

"The war's over."

"How many hours do _you_ sleep a night?" he shot back, and I stopped walking. "Sorry, he said and rubbed his hand over his face. "That was uncalled-for. I guess I am more tired than usual."

"Forgiven."

"But I don't want him having nightmares, not when he can't call for help."

"I'm not saying you should just leave him be," I replied. "But we need to find a happy medium. What does Dr. Desfrense say?"

"The same thing she always does. Be patient, and he'll move past it. I don't know what to do in the meantime. He's got a nightlight. He's got a teddy bear and the cat to keep him company. You're just down the passage and Mrs Bell is in the next room. But if I sleep in my own own bed he crawls in with me, and when I put him back into his bed he won't let go of me until I lie down with him. I don't know what else to do than to just stay with him so he doesn't get up in the night and go out of the house again, or worse."

_Talk to him about the ghosts_ , I thought, but pressed my lips together to keep from saying it out loud.

We were near a wrought-iron bench that encircled an oak tree, and Noel looked at me with his eyebrows raised. I shook my head -- I had no need to sit -- so we continued to walk, deeper into the garden where sugar cane stalks pressed close against the wrought-iron fence and fireflies darted among the cypress trees and weeping willows. The lights from the house glowed in the distance.

I said, "I used to sleepwalk when I was a kid. I would wake up in my sister's room or curled up in the bathtub, or sometimes it woke my brother up and he'd put me back to bed. One time I was in the front yard when they found me. That scared my mother more than it did me."

"How did you make it stop?"

I shrugged. "I got older and it stopped by itself. But my point is that weird sleeping habits happen with kids all the time. You just have to find a way to deal with this that isn't also going to wear you out -- like maybe moving his bed into your room."

"Oh, Emmanuel would have a heart attack at that. What did you do at Goodwin if a child wouldn't sleep in his bed?"

"We had housemothers who dealt with that. If it got so bad it interfered with the boy's schooling she'd bring the matter to the superintendent, and sometimes that meant the boy was sent home, with a recommendation he attend a day school."

"I wish I could send him somewhere," Noel murmured. "Anywhere would be better than this." He sighed. "I'll just have to continue being patient and waiting for him to grow out of it."

"Don't be afraid to ask me for help," I said seriously.

"You being here is help enough." He said this softly, looking away, and I couldn't stop myself from smiling.

We hadn't had a chance to touch all week; we'd hardly had a moment alone with each other, let alone to escape the house for an hour. I ached to touch him even more now that we'd taken that step; I knew I shouldn't, that I remember he was my employer and not my lover, that I should leave him alone -- but I just didn't want to.

All around us, the night was quiet. Wind made the trees and sugar cane rustle; the river rumbled in the distance, cicadas chirped, bullfrogs thrummed.

Still, before the need to touch him could make me move, Noel turned back to the house. "It'll be Caleb's bedtime soon."

"All right," I said, shoving the need back down, and he offered me his arm again for the walk back.

* * *

Friday night, the three of us drove into the city and chose a movie theater near the university. The theater was busy with students, young marrieds out on date night, and families trying to keep all the children together. Noel carried Caleb with one arm as we walked from where we had parked the car, and we stopped in front of the posters to choose the night's entertainment.

" _The Red Badge of Courage_ ," Noel read with doubt in his voice, " _The Thing_ , or _An American in Paris_."

"War picture, horror picture, or musical," I said. We looked at each other and we both said, "Musical," and Noel smiled a tiny bit.

"What do you think, Caleb? Musical? It has a lot of singing and dancing."

Caleb studied the posters, his mouth screwed up in thought, and then nodded and pointed to the poster for _An American in Paris_ with its bright colors and Gene Kelly's smiling, handsome face.

"A man after my own heart," Noel said, and we got in line for tickets.

Once those were purchased we stood in another line to buy popcorn and soda pop, Noel still carrying Caleb. I stood a little bit behind them, in part because the line for treats was cordoned off by a velvet rope and the section was narrow, but more because it gave me the perfect opportunity to admire him. I knew Noel's work involved a lot of sitting at his desk while he researched and analyzed, but there were also days when he left the house in work boots and jeans because he was going to be on a building site or a possible location. He kept his body strong because of those days, and the sight of Caleb so trusting in his arms, his own arm around Noel's neck as Noel carried him easily, was truly touching.

They were both striking enough to get second looks from many people, something I suppose Noel was accustomed to enough to barely notice, though I did catch him faintly frowning when a pair of girls pointed to Caleb -- a pretty child by any standard, with his wide blue eyes and curly dark hair -- and then whispered to each other behind their hands. I stepped a little closer to Noel then, and put my hand on his back a moment. He glanced at me and gave me one of his faint smiles.

Finally it was our turn to order and pay. The girl behind the counter caught sight of Caleb and exclaimed, "Oh, what a beautiful son you're got, sir!"

Noel smiled uncomfortably, and Caleb hid his face in Noel's shoulder. "He's my nephew."

"Oh--" She glanced at me, and I picked up the bag of popcorn.

"He means thank you," I said, and Noel murmured, "Yes, thank you," and took our bottles of soda. "Caleb, I think I need to put you down now."

Caleb nodded and slid down to the floor, and Noel gave him one of the bottles. They held hands as we went through the lobby to the theater itself.

We chose seats near the front so Caleb could see the screen easily, and had him sit between the two of us. "You're in charge of the popcorn, Caleb," Noel said as he handed me my bottle of Coke, and Caleb nodded solemnly and held the big bag in his lap with both hands.

Before a picture begins, theaters are always bustling places, as people find their seats and call out to friends or leave again to get food, and we had to shift a few times to let our fellow audience members in and out of the row. A bit of commotion was commonplace, until someone's raised voice rose above all the other noise -- "You don't belong here!"

I started to haul myself up when Noel got to his feet. A man in the row in front of us was berating the couple a few seats down -- a Negro couple, young folks out on a date, and they both had the lowered heads and resigned expressions of people who just wanted a bit of normal life and were once again denied it.

"Hey!" Noel said sharply, and all four -- the Negro couple, the shouting man, and his own date -- looked at us. For a moment I thought for a moment the man recognized Noel -- or maybe he just recognized the kingly air Noel carried with him -- but then he took in me, too, and shrank into himself.

"Some folks ought to know their place, is all," he mumbled to the floor.

Noel said to the couple, "There are seats in our row for you," and glared at the other man as if daring him to protest. The Negro couple moved back to our row, and the woman smiled at Caleb as they shuffled past him, getting a smile in return. I sat down once they were down a few seats, though Noel stayed standing until they were safely seated, and then sat too and exhaled. Before I could reach other to pat his shoulder, Caleb leaned his head on Noel's arm, and Noel dropped a quick kiss on Caleb's hair.

The picture was cheery and full of Gershwin tunes, though the plot hit home a bit -- Gene Kelly played an American G.I. working in Paris as a painter, like I had hoped to do before I was wounded. The picture didn't mention theproblems most vets I knew dealt with, either -- the sleepless nights, the flinching at loud noises, the war wounds that never really stopped aching. Ah well, it was a fantasy. Most people don't break into song at the most emotional moments of their lives, either.

Caleb loved the entire movie-going experience; he sat on the very edge of his seat, eyes wide, all during the cartoon and the newsreel, and through most of the picture itself. Still, he was asleep by the final ballet, and slept soundly, his head on Noel's shoulder as Noel carried him out of the theater and back to the Jaguar.

Noel put Caleb carefully in the center of the seat and we got in either side, and we both were quiet as we drove out of the city and back to Fidele.

"It was good to see that Paris is recovering well," I said at last. "I didn't get much of a chance to linger when we were there. We drove out the Germans and then followed them right out of France, and my involvement in the war ended not much later."

Noel didn't answer for a minute or two. "I'd like to see France someday. Supposedly there's a chateau somewhere in the countryside, with distant cousins. Achille Thibodeaux was supposed to be the youngest son of a minor noble, or so the story goes."

"If they survived the Revolution, they might still be there."

"True."

We drove several minutes more in silence, then I said, "That was a brave thing you did in there."

"That theater doesn't have a colored section. Those two had every right to sit where they wanted."

"That fella should have known that."

"That fella wouldn't have cared. Men like him don't. Fought a goddamned war to end that bullshit and it's still going on at home."

"Noel," I said and put my hand on his shoulder, and he exhaled slowly.

"Sorry. It drives me crazy."

"I know. It does me, too."

"Well, you were raised a progressive. You've got more experience with it."

I smiled out the window. "It gets easier. No, that's not exactly right. It doesn't get easier to watch. But it gets easier to stand up."

Noel huffed, and we drove in silence for a while.

I said, "All in all, that was a nice date night, complete with chaperone. Clever of you."

"A boy, his uncle, and his tutor," Noel said. "Perfectly innocent."

"I'm sure no one suspected a thing."

"We all needed to get out of the house," Noel said and glanced at me. To keep myself from taking his hand, I put my other hand out the window to feel the night air skimming over my skin.

As we came up the drive, Fidele waiting at the end, I said, "We could still make a break for it tonight."

"I didn't bring a change of clothes for Caleb," Noel replied.

* * *

After breakfast on Saturday, I walked with Caleb to the Christies' little house, which had been the overseer's house during the glory days of the plantation. It a one-story little house, painted yellow and turquoise, with awrap-around porch and many windows to invite in any stray breezes from the river.

"Ready for this, Caleb?" I said, and he looked up at me and give a hesitant nod. "If you want to go home at any time, just let me know and we'll go."

He nodded, and we climbed the front steps and rapped on the door.

Julia Christie was a pretty but weary-looking young woman with an English accent and bobbed dark hair. Her little boy, Samuel, clutched at her skirt and peeped at us shyly while she struggled with a wailing toddler. Samuel was a stout, dark-haired child, in shorts and sandals and a short-sleeved knit shirt. The house itself was cluttered but tidy, with an upright piano in the front room and the photo from Alex and Julia's wartime wedding on the mantlepiece.

"Mrs. Christie, I'm Malcolm Carmichael and this is Caleb," I said.

"Oh, Mr. Carmichael," Mrs. Christie said as the baby squirmed and cried, "my sister-in-law dropped off my nephew for the day without asking me if I could watch him. Maybe Caleb should come another day."

"I'm all right with that," I said and looked down at Caleb, who was still holding my hand. He looked up at me, disappointed. "What do you think of that, Caleb?"

He shrugged, looking at Samuel. Samuel smiled back, a little less shy, and let go of his mother's skirt.

"I want to play with him, Mummy," he told his mother, his tone hopeful.

She smiled and touched his hair, and I said, "I could watch the boys, if you're busy with the baby."

"That would be so helpful," she said, nearly sagging with relief. "I'd like them to play in the back garden, and there's a rocking chair -- not that you need a rocking chair," she added hastily, "I mean, obviously you shouldn't stand all afternoon, but, um--"

"I appreciate the chair," I said. I balanced on my cane and stooped down so I could be on Samuel's level. "Samuel? I'm Malcolm. I look after Caleb. Would you like to show Caleb your back yard?"

Samuel nodded and grabbed Caleb's hand, and they ran through the house and out the back door. I straightened up and said to Mrs. Christie, "What's your nephew's name?" as I gestured to the baby.

"Ned," she said, and then gestured to the baby too. "This is actually my daughter, Jane. Ned is outside. He's a little older than Sammy," she added as we walked through the house. "They don't see each other very often because Alex and his brother don't get along, and I've been trying to houseclean and keep them occupied, and their noise keeps waking up the baby."

"I don't mind watching the children," I assured her.

"Thank you, Mr. Carmichael," she said and pulled the rocking chair out of its corner so it overlooked the yard better.

"Thank you," I answered and sat, my cane propped against the porch's banister. I took out my sketchbook and pencils and held them on my knee as I looked out over the yard. Trees grew right up to the fence, and I could hear the waters of the bayou, even closer than they sounded in the gardens. The grass was thick though not as neatly trimmed as it was at the big house, but there was no pair of gardeners to take care of it; still, the autumn flowers were a riot of colors in the flower beds, and there was a simple tree house in one of the oaks inside the fence.

The cousin, Ned, was in the tree house. He was also a stocky, dark-haired child, aged nine or ten, and taller than Samuel and Caleb. He strutted up and down the platform of the tree house like it was a pirate ship and he was its captain.

"That's my cousin," Samuel told Caleb. "He says the tree house is his now."

Caleb looked up at the tree house, and then at Samuel, and then tugged his hand. They went to a sand pit at the other end of the yard, where Samuel had been building a small lumpy city for his toy cars.

The little boys seemed to be getting along fine and Ned was busy crowing over the tree house, so I opened my sketchbook and began to brainstorm the continuing adventures of Sir Errant and Sir Tristan. They couldn't just kiss all the time, as much as I enjoyed drawing it.

For the first half hour or so, things were peaceful. I heard Mrs. Christie softly singing as she went about her chores, and Samuel chattered away happily as he and Caleb built up the sand-pit town. Not a peep from Caleb, but I knew better than to expect a breakthrough to happen on such an ordinary afternoon.

Eventually Ned, bored without an audience, climbed down the tree and circled the yard slowly a few times before stopping at the sand pit.

"What're you doing?"

Samuel's response was quiet. "Makin' stuff. A city."

"Then I'm King Kong!" Ned announced, waving his arms, and he stepped on one of the buildings Samuel and Caleb had made. Caleb looked up at him, his eyebrows drawing together. "Rar!" Ned kicked over another building, and then ground a car into the sand with his foot.

As I grabbed my cane and started to get to my feet, Caleb stood, lower lip protruding, brows furrowed -- so much like the face Noel made when he was displeased that I had a moment of imagining Simon and Noel as five-year-olds, frowning in unison at Emmanuel -- and then climbed down the steps. Caleb, meantime, was breathing faster and faster as Ned gleefully stepped on Samuel's cars. Samuel stayed on his knees, his eyes downcast.

"And who are you, anyway?" Ned said to Caleb as I crossed the yard. "You're not Samuel's friend. Samuel doesn't have any friends."

Caleb glared at him.

"Why don't you talk?" Ned said, shoving his face into Caleb's. "Are you a dummy? Dummy! Dummy! Dummy! Samuel's friends with a dummy!"

Faster than I could move, Caleb lowered his head and ran into Ned, knocking the bigger boy in the solar plexus. Ned went down onto the grass and stared up at Caleb, shock all over his face.

I finally reached them and grabbed Caleb. "Caleb Thibodeaux, what the hell--"

He threw himself into my arms, shaking, and I knelt as best I could. Ned watched Caleb cautiously as if he'd never had anyone stand up to him that way. Samuel stared, too, his eyes enormous, and I wanted to hold out an arm for him as well.

"Ned," I said, and for a moment he looked frightened, as if he hadn't thought any adults were around, and then he saw my cane and his face relaxed. I ignored it. "Apologize to Samuel. You have no right to destroy his toys."

Ned got to his feet. His face had the mulish look that boys who think they're tough get when they're about to be insolent. "You're not my dad. You're just a cripple."

"You're right," I said. "I am crippled. Wanna know how I got crippled?" Without waiting for him to respond, I said, "Fighting Germans in the war. If you think you're scarier than German soldiers, you've got another think coming, kid."

Ned blinked, as if no one had ever spoken to him this way before, and I could picture his parents so clearly -- his inconsiderate mother, his bullying father -- and I felt sorry for him, just for a moment. He looked at Samuel and muttered, "Sorry."

Samuel nodded and looked at me -- or at Caleb, whose face was still buried in my shoulder.

"Caleb," I said to him gently, "I know you were trying to defend your friend, but it's wrong to hurt people. Are you sorry for what you did to Ned?"

Caleb met my eyes, and then shook his head vigorously. I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling -- I didn't blame him for not being sorry -- and said, "Then I think it's time we go home. Playtime's over. I'm sorry, Samuel," I added to him.

"It's okay," he said quietly, and I sincerely hoped that our leaving didn't mean a miserable afternoon for him.

Mrs. Christie came out onto the porch as we were coming up the steps, Ned trailing behind us. "What's happened?"

"The boys got into a little altercation," I said, and Mrs. Christie put her hands on Samuel's face, looking anxious. "Maybe we could try this some other day."

"Yes, of course," she said, still looking over Samuel, and I didn't wait for her to see us out.

On the walk back through the woods to Fidele, I said to Caleb, "You had half the right idea, Caleb. It's good to stand up to people who are being mean or cruel. It's not good to be mean or cruel back. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He looked up at me with wide eyes, and nodded solemnly. I stooped and murmured, "And between you and me, I think that kid deserved it," and he hid his face in my leg, smiling and bashful and pleased.

* * *

That night, as everyone else was doing their usual evening activities, I left the house to walk the gardens. I did this most nights, unless it was raining; and sometimes even then I broke out a rain slicker and nor'easter and stumped around the brick paths.

I had a joint and lighter in my pocket as well, something I also indulged in most nights, as it was the only thing that let me get even a few hours of sleep. Pain was a constant since the war, and it had taken a long time to find something that eased it that didn't also turn me into a drooling mess. Weed usage was common amongst many former G.I.s I knew, who used it for the same reasons I did -- pain, exhaustion, a way to cope with the things we'd done and witnessed.

Obviously, this was not something I'd mentioned to Noel -- or Mary Kate, or Oliver, or Archie -- so I usually waited to light up until I reached one of the wrought iron benches beneath an oak tree and I was sheltered by shadows.

I'd been at Fidele for a month at this point. A lot had happened in that brief time, and it seemed to me I hadn't sat back and properly processed it yet. So I did that as best I could as I smoked and watched the fireflies; I thought about my friends and the people in my care -- I counted Noel as well as Caleb, and even Willie and Mrs. Bell and all the denizens of Fidele, and even Emmanuel in his way -- and the strangeness of this family and this haunting; I thought about the little graveyard in the woods, the sounds of the piano when no one was in the music room, the dark figure that seemed obsessed with Caleb; and I wondered what I could do for them, if there was anything I could do at all.

Before I could reach any conclusions, the sound of footsteps on the brick paving stones made me hastily wave my hand through the marijuana smoke and look for a place to dispose of the cigarette, where its glowing ember wouldn't give me away.

Noel rounded the path, and he paused. He looked at the joint, and then narrowed his eyes at me.

"It's a nice night," I said, and then gestured with the cigarette. "This is medicinal."

He looked at the joint, then back at my face, and then closed his eyes and sighed. He sat on the bench beside me and held out his hand.

Feeling like a chastened child, I gave him the joint -- but rather than crushing it out Noel took a long drag, like someone who'd smoked weed many times, and then gave it back to me.

"Beats morphine," he remarked, and I chuckled before having another drag myself. "I just got off the phone with Alex Christie. Apparently Caleb head-butted his nephew while he was at their house today."

"Yeah," I said. "I was going to tell you about that, away from Emmanuel."

"I wondered why you came home early." I offered him the joint again, and he had another drag and gave it back. "Did the kid deserve it?"

"Completely. He was a little prick."

"That seems to be Alex's opinion, too."

We were both quiet a moment, and we both were laughing. "I know it's not funny," Noel said, when we'd calmed down a bit. "But it's funny. Caleb is _five_. Apparently the nephew is nine?"

"I think so."

"And already a little prick."

"Well," I said," some people start young," and Noel's shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

I said, "I talked to Caleb about it. I told him standing up to a bully was good, hurting people wasn't. The kid had to be four inches taller than him, but Caleb was fearless." I hesitated. "I imagine that's what Simon was like."

Noel took another hit. "He was. He was a protector. He wasn't like me -- he was no good at being a solider. He never took the war into him. I was always glad he was on an aircraft carrier and not on the front lines. I think having to take a life would have destroyed him." He gave the joint back to me.

"He stood up for you, though." I took a drag and gave it to him.

"He did," Noel said. "But he never raised a hand to anyone, not even Emmanuel at his worst."

He took another drag. I said, "There are worse things to inherit than a sense of justice. If Caleb grows up to be a good man, you've done your job well."

"If he grows up to be a good man, I don't think it'll have much to do with me."

"Lies," I said. "You're already showing him what a good man is. You just keep doing that."

Noel huffed and gave the joint to me. I inhaled, let the smoke fill me, and then exhaled it out.

He said slowly, "Don't paint me to be a hero. I'm not like the knight in your comic. I'm not selfless and pure."

"You don't have to be a knight to be a hero." I passed the joint to him. "You just have to keep doing what you're doing."

Noel shook his head. "You have a lot of faith in me. I'm not sure why."

"Because I know you."

Noel huffed, looking at me with eyes like the night sky above us, dark yet full of light. He said softly, "You have the bluest eyes I've ever seen."

I couldn't be apart from him a moment longer. I kissed him, and he pushed his hands into my hair and kissed me back, making hungry, desperate sounds.

All too soon, he pulled back, so that our foreheads pressed together and we clutched at each others' shoulders and necks, breathing hard, aching for more. "Malcolm."

"Noel," I answered. I loved his name -- a word of joy.

"Not the time nor the place."

"Give me the time and I'll find the place."

He tightened his grip in my shirt. "You never stop, do you?"

"I've had a taste of you," I said, honest and raw. "I want more."

He looked toward the house. I glanced back at the house too -- we were yards away, shielded by the trees and hedges and the bends in the path. "Don't be afraid," I said. "No one can see us. Emmanuel can't see."

"It's not just about Emmanuel. There are other things, other reasons, why I've never been with anyone for any real length of time. It just sounds crazy when I say it out loud."

"I won't think it's crazy."

He closed his eyes as if it pained him, and I kissed his face, longing to comfort him. "Stop," he murmured after a few minutes of this, and I leaned back with a sigh. "Not tonight."

"All right," I said, then said, "Are you okay? Did something happen, that you're--"

"I'm as all right as I ever am." He put his hands on my face and I closed my eyes. It reminded me of how Mrs. Christie had touched Samuel, as much to comfort herself as to comfort him. "I'm glad you're here," he murmured and I could feel his breath on my lips. "I'm glad you love Caleb and I'm very glad you like me."

"I like you so much," I whispered.

"I know." He took his hands from my face. I opened my eyes.

"Coming inside?"

"I'm going to finish this," I said, gesturing with the cigarette.

"Does that really help?"

"It dulls the pain," I said, and he nodded, looking thoughtful, and went back through the garden to Fidele.

I stayed outside a while longer, until my cigarette was burned down to ash. I crushed it on the brick path and started for the house, when movement in one of the windows caught my eye. I stopped and watched, and saw a figure in the window of one of the empty rooms. But not the strange, silent almost-Noel I had seen before, nor the dark figure I had seen in Caleb's room. This was a woman, with her hair bound in a turban high on the back of her head. Even at this distance, I could see her face and even her figure -- a beauty with wide eyes and mouth, high cheekbones and dark skin, dressed in the clothes of centuries past.

We stared at each other.

She turned away from the window, and as she turned, she disappeared.

I inhaled, startled, and then thumped to the house as fast as I could go and went up to the empty room where she can been standing. It was still empty, of course, nothing strange about it except the smell of hot, smokey smell of burning sugar.


	16. The Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> "There are other things, other reasons, why I've never been with anyone for any real length of time. It just sounds crazy when I say it out loud."

As soon as I got back to my room, I got a sketchbook and drew the woman as well as I could remember -- her exotic beauty, her mournful expression.

When I put down my pencil, though, I asked myself what I could do with this picture. I couldn't show it to Noel -- he didn't want to hear about anything supernatural and didn't want Caleb to hear about it; I figured that ban extended to Mrs. Bell and Willie -- and of course I didn't confide in Emmanuel.

I thought about including it in my next letter to Mary Kate, but she had been so practical about my visions of Zachary that I thought she would explain this away as well. And to be honest, I didn't know how to explain it to myself. I hadn't seen ghosts as a child, even though I had an active imagination to the point that sometimes I wasn't always sure what was real and what wasn't -- but that was only when I was caught up in my daydreams, and I had never been one to deliberately scare myself. Seeing ghosts had only begun since I came home from the war, and I sometimes suspected this was some sort of post-war madness.

Dorian might be sympathetic, but we hadn't spoken since we agreed we weren't going to pursue a relationship, and I didn't want to call on him yet, not with only this as a reason to meet. Rene, too, might be sympathetic, but I admit pride held me back from confiding in him. I didn't want him thinking his old Sarge was losing his mind.

The lack of someone to talk to about this made me miss Zachary even more keenly. He had always been the best at bringing me back to reality, ever since we were small. I turned to a blank page and drew what I remembered from his and Matilda's wedding day, she in her simple afternoon wedding dress, him in his uniform. It didn't erase the ache of missing him, but still I felt better afterward. Our family's trick of doing something, making something, when our hearts hurt had yet to fail me.

It was after midnight when I finally closed my sketchbook. It had been a long day and the relaxing effect of my cigarette earlier was starting to fade. I put my supplies away and went to bed, for once falling asleep not long after I lay down.

I woke abruptly, not sure where I was or even what day it was -- and upright, my cane still propped against the night table where I'd left it. I grabbed the bedpost to keep myself from collapsing, and eased myself back into bed, glad I hadn't gone any further.

My heart raced in my chest, and I stared into the darkness as I forced myself to breathe slowly. Sleepwalking was nothing new to me, of course, but it hadn't happened since I was six or seven. My leg throbbed with pain; I massaged my hip and knee, cursing under my breath at whatever had forced me up in my sleep.

Sleep was pointless. I sat up slowly and took my cane, pulled on a dressing gown, and picked up a sketchbook to pass the time. I went first to the bathroom, to take whatever pain reliever I could find -- they would only dull the pain, but I would settle for dullness at this time of night -- and was about to descend the stairs when I heard soft jazz piano from the music room.

Noel couldn't sleep, either, it would seem. Caleb must have been sound asleep for Noel to leave him.

Rather than disturb his music, I sat on the top step of the staircase and clasped my hands around my knees to listen. I would have preferred he seek his comfort with me, but I was glad he at least had music.

As one song moved into the next, I heard another door open, and down the passage of the east wing came Emmanuel, bearing a candle in a candlestick. He paused at the top of the east wing staircase, his face emotionless, and listened for several minutes as his hand gripped the banister like he was on the deck of a storm-tossed ship.

I almost spoke -- almost begged him, _Talk to your son, he misses Simon too,_ but I kept my mouth closed.

Abruptly the music ended. Emmanuel made a soft sound, like he'd been startled out of deep thought. He frowned in my direction and held up the candle, and I said quietly, "He's a good pianist."

Emmanuel grunted and turned back to the passage.

"Mr. Thibodeaux, wait," I said and got to my feet. I followed after him and said, "If it were me, I'd be grateful I had two children to comfort me when my --"

He whirled to face me, an expression on his face that I was sure cowed everyone around him, and shoved the candle closer to my face. I managed not to flinch. He growled, "You don't know anything about it. You don't know _anything_."

"Then tell me. Tell me what's going on in this house, Emmanuel."

He scowled at me. He had the same vivid, ocean-colored eyes as Noel and Caleb, but his held none if the mischief of Caleb's, nor none of Noel's tenderness. Still, for a moment he looked like he wanted to tell me -- instead, he jabbed his finger in my chest and said, "You call me _Mr. Thibodeaux_ ," and stalked back to his room.

I sighed and scrubbed my hand through my hair. I thought about going down to the music room to join Noel after all, and decided against it. I doubted I would be able to comfort him any more than he could comfort me.

On my way back to bed, I stopped at Caleb's door to make sure he was still sleeping. As I expected, his nightlight was on and Tumnus was curled in the curve of his body. What I did not expect was to see Noel, also asleep, with Caleb in his arms.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

I thought, _He must have taken the back stairs,_ even though I knew Noel could not get up here and fall asleep again in the short time since the music stopped.

All this time, I had thought the occasional soft, jazzy piano music had been Noel soothing himself in the night. I had never thought it might be someone else -- _something_ else.

I went back to bed, but it was almost dawn before I finally fell asleep again.

\-----

Before I took the job, Noel had told me he would need to travel frequently for his; he had not done this throughout September, which I put to his firm allowing him to take bereavement leave while he got Caleb settled.

But in the first week of October, Noel said at supper, "I need to go to Chicago for a few days. I'm leaving Wednesday and I'll be back Saturday night."

Emmanuel and Caleb both paused, looking at him -- Emmanuel suspiciously, Caleb unhappily -- and Emmanuel growled, "You spend a lot of time there, boy."

"Yes," Noel said mildly, "our headquarters are there." He said to me, "I'd like to call on the Talbots while I'm in the city. Do you think that would be all right?"

"I'm sure it would be," I said, and I have to say that it warmed me a bit -- Oliver had never even remembered the names of my siblings, let alone wanted to meet them or get to know them -- and I hoped that it would ease Mary Kate's worries about me, if she got to know Noel better. "I'll write to Mary Kate tomorrow and tell her to expect you."

"Thank you," Noel said.

"Who's this?" Emmanuel said sharply.

"My sister," I said. "She lives in Chicago with her husband and baby girl."

"And who's this husband of hers?"

"George Talbot," I said. "He's an editor for the Chicago _Tribune_."

Emmanuel snorted, "Newspaper man," but as he could find nothing more objectionable than that, he didn't comment more.

Still downcast, Caleb drank from his goblet of milk. Noel said to him, "I'll bring you back something interesting, and maybe in the summer I can take you with me and we'll go to a baseball game at Wrigley Field."

Caleb nodded, not even the prospect of baseball cheering him, and Noel looked at me, troubled. I patted Caleb's shoulder and he gave a brave, tiny smile.

After Mrs. Bell had taken Caleb to put him to bed, Noel said to me, "I would have told you earlier but I just found out I'm needed this afternoon. One of my colleagues was supposed to present this particular report but his wife is ill and he asked me to take his place."

"It's fine," I said. "I'll keep him busy during the day, and hopefully he won't miss you too much."

Noel huffed, with a tiny smile of his own. "I'll ask Mrs. Bell to sleep in his room, if problems start up again. But he hasn't gotten up in the night for almost a week now, so I think that particular crisis has passed." He added after a moment, almost shy, "I hope Mary Kate won't mind me visiting. I thought I might take them out to dinner, if they can come."

"I'm sure she'll be fine with it," I said gently. "She liked you."

He ducked his head at that. "Well. Thanks. Good night, Malcolm."

"Noel," I said before he could retreat to the library, "when you get back, let's take Caleb to lunch in the city. I think we all could use the outing."

He looked at me a moment, his lips pressed together, and then he nodded and left me to go into the library. I longed to join him, truly, but instead I went up to my room to write my letter at my writing desk. As much as I craved his company, I thought it was better to deny myself than to only want more than he was willing to give.

I mailed the letter to Mary Kate the next day, and before dawn on a wet Wednesday morning Willie took Noel to the train station. Despite the early hour, Caleb watched the car leave from the nursery window, and he was listless for the rest of the day, reluctant to play, study, or even draw.

We had finished _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ a few days before, so it was time to start a new book. He and Noel were reading _Peter Pan_ at bedtime, which I thought was enough about pirates for the time being, and passed over _Treasure Island_ for a slim novel that I had brought, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's _Le Petit Prince_ in French. After lunch, I asked Willie to build a fire in the library and took Caleb and Tumnus there with the book and plenty of crayons and blank paper. On the surface we were studying French vocabulary; mostly, though, I tried to distract him from his unhappiness with the story. As we worked our way through the story I asked him to draw some pictures of the events, like the snake eating an elephant or the rose in her glass dome.

I could never understand Emmanuel's scorn for make-believe. To me, it was a relief to put the real world aside in favor of lands where pixies dwelled, or a boy might travel from planet to planet by a flock of birds, or where wise children might rule as kings and queens.

When school hours were over, Caleb lay on the hearth rug with Tumnus, petting her while she rhythmically flexed her paws. As I drew them, I wondered where his mind went when it wandered, and if he heard the jazz music at night and knew who played it. Caleb, I suspected, knew far more about what was going on in this house than any adult, and of course had no way to tell us. His handwriting was improving, but it was still beyond him to write about such sophisticated concepts such as hauntings and ghosts.

My father had advised me on a few matters with Caleb, like how to engage him when games and crayons weren't enough, and books that were appropriate for his age, but when I asked him what they had done when I sleep-walked as a child, he only said what I already knew: time and patience. Children outgrow it.

I had not outgrown it. There had been a long lull, but now that it had begun again it happened almost every night. I couldn't go far without waking myself up due to pain, but it was still disorienting to find myself out of bed and sometimes as far as the passage outside my door, my leg and hip screaming in protest, and having to make my way back to bed or the nearest chair using only the wall as support. It was even harder to fall asleep again afterward without help for the pain, and I didn't want to overdo that. Taken after midnight, sleeping pills and reefer made me groggy in the mornings, something I couldn't allow when there was a child in my care.

I toyed with telling Mary Kate about this, but decided even her practicality wouldn't help in this situation. There was nothing to be done but try to sleep, and if I didn't, concentrate on looking after Caleb properly in the morning. Most days I managed this, but to be honest when he didn't want to play outside or even run through the passages of the big house, I was grateful for the chance it gave me to simply rest.

I said as I sketched the boy and kitten, "Have you ever been to a baseball game, Caleb? They're very exciting, especially when you go to one of the big stadiums. I got to see the Brooklyn Dodgers play once. I cheered so loud they invited me to pitch for them, but after one game I decided teaching was more important than baseball."

Caleb gave me a look like he knew I was pulling his leg, and I grinned at him. There was a tiny kernel of truth there -- I had pitched for my college team, but that was ten years ago. "I bet you'll like baseball."

He huffed, so like Noel I smiled to myself. Tumnus chose the moment to pounce on him, and they wrestled together on the hearth rug.

\-----

Supper was quiet. Emmanuel barely acknowledged us, which again made me wonder why he forced Noel to bring Caleb to Fidele if he didn't even want to speak to the boy. I had assumed from the beginning that it was a matter of pride; but as I remembered his face as we listened to the midnight serenade, I wondered if it was fear.

I lay awake that night with my arm behind my head and listened to the rain, and tried to calm my thoughts. Finally I turned the lamp back on and picked up the nearest sketchbook, and wrote down everything I knew. There was at least one female spirit here, which I assumed had to be poor mad Charlotte; now I believed there was a second one as well, perhaps a former slave; and of course I was certain Simon was haunting the house, too, to watch over his brother and son.

Caleb, I thought, knew about Charlotte, as did Noel. I hadn't thought before that Emmanuel knew or believed in ghosts, but now I thought maybe he knew more than any of us. He had lived in this house all his life, after all.

The problem with all of this, I thought, was that _seeing_ ghosts didn't mean you knew what to _do_ about them. Sometimes I tried speaking to them, but as had happened when I tried to talk to Simon, they could't really communicate in return.

I could ask my father for advice about teaching, I thought wearily, but there was no one I could ask about the restless dead.

The phone rang.

Now, the phone was in a niche in the passage outside of my room, close enough that I heard it if it rang, which was rare, and usually Noel or Mrs. Bell answered it downstairs.

It was so late I didn't want Mrs. Bell to get up to answer it, so I got my cane and left my room to answer it myself; and I intended to scold whoever was calling at this hour, unless it was an emergency.

I picked up the receiver mid-ring. "Fidele, Malcolm Carmichael speaking."

There was no answer but the hiss and crackle of static.

"Hello?" I said impatiently. "Is anyone there?"

Faintly, I heard a voice as familiar to me as my own. "Mal?"

I dropped the receiver, I was so startled. And then I snatched it up again. My hand shook as I held the receiver to my ear. I whispered, "Zack?"

Thunder boomed and lightning crashed, and for a moment I thought I saw a tall shape at the end of the passage, outlined against the window.

In the next flash of lightning, the shape was gone. There wasn't a sound from the receiver in my hand; the phone line was dead once again.

I put the receiver back in the cradle and stood there for a moment, my fingertips resting on the phone. Finally I said, "I miss you, Zachary," and went back to bed.

\-----

Friday, the rain continued. After lunch, I put Caleb into his rain boots and slicker, put on my own raincoat, and took him out for a long walk in the garden -- or rather, I walked, he ran down the path to investigate a clump of flowers or fallen leaves, and then ran back to me to show me the pretty rocks or tiny frogs he found. The rocks I put in my pocket; the frogs, we released in the stream.

A postcard arrived for Caleb with the day's mail, with a picture of Wrigley Field and a big, cheerful, "GREETINGS FROM CHICAGO" on the front, and a short message from Noel on the back.

  


_Caleb,_

_This is the stadium where the Cubs play. I can see it from my hotel. There is also a museum nearby with many old paintings and statues where I like to spend a little time between meetings. Chicago is a very pretty town with lots of tall buildings, and it smells like cotton candy!_

_I miss you very much._

_Love,_

_Uncle Noel_

  


I read the postcard aloud to Caleb, and the notion of a city smelling like cotton candy tickled him so much he actually giggled. We spent the rest of the afternoon designing a city made of sweets and cookies.

It was such a good day that when I went to bed, it seemed inevitable that a ghost to come along and ruin it. For once I was wrong; as far as I could tell, Fidele's otherworldly residents kept to themselves.

Saturday morning, Alex Christie came with Samuel shortly after breakfast. With Noel out of town and Emmanuel uninterested in the day-to-day management of the farm, he didn't plan to stay long; but the boys could spend all day playing together, and so Alex planned to return for him in the afternoon.

I tried to keep the boys limited to the nursery and the schoolroom, not always successfully. They galloped up and down the passage, one moments as knights and the next as pirates, with Tumnus on Caleb's shoulder as their prisoner or mascot or the princess they had rescued, depending.

Twice the door to Emmanuel's study opened and he came down the passage, but rather than bellowing at the boys to hush -- he was of the generation that believed children should be seen but not heard, after all -- he listened to the boys play for a few minutes, and then went back to his study.

Myself, I settled at the top of the staircase nearest Caleb's wing of the house with my sketchbook and stationary so I could write letters while I kept an eye on the boys. When Tumnus grew tired of games she joined me, and curled into a bundle of gray fluff against my side where I could easily pet her when I wanted to rest my hand.

The rain continued steadily while the thunder and lightning came and went. Child of the city as I was, I always found rain to be a comforting sound, and days like this never bothered me. Thunder was another matter; the sound was too much like the shells the Germans had rained on us as we advanced through Europe, and I had to close my eyes and take a deep breath whenever thunder boomed.

Lightning flashed and thunder crashed, and I heard a shriek so terrified that I shoved my things aside and grabbed my cane without another thought. "Samuel!" I shouted. "Caleb!" I went down the passage, past Caleb's rooms, to the tall window at the end that overlooked the sugar cane fields. There was a lump under the curtains; I pulled the curtain back to reveal the boys, huddled together and clutching each other. "What happened, Samuel?" I said. "Why did you scream?"

They both pointed at one of the many portraits that lined the passage. "The lady moved, Mr. Malcolm!" Samuel exclaimed. "She growled at us!"

Caleb nodded vigorously and pointed again at the portrait.

I said, "All right, stay there," and moved closer to the portrait. Many of the paintings in Fidele were very fine, even a few by famous masters of the eighteenth century, and it seemed like a miracle that they had survived the Civil War and Reconstruction. This picture was of the same high quality, though I didn't recognize the name of the artist; a portrait of a light-skinned Negro woman, likely a quadroon, with large sensitive eyes and her hair bound in a turban. Her expression was mild, though I supposed two imaginative children could convince themselves that she had turned fierce when the lightning struck.

And I realized as I studied her face, that I had seen this woman before -- standing in the window of one of the unused rooms, which she left smelling of burnt sugar.

"Come on, boys," I said and held out my hand to the children. "Let's go see Mrs. Bell in the kitchen." And while they were occupied, I thought, I could ask Willie to take the portrait down.

Caleb took my hand and Samuel took his, and we went downstairs. As we left the passage, I glanced over my shoulder at the painting again, and while her face was still lovely her expression was no longer mild -- instead it was knowing, calculating, even.

I shivered, told myself it was just the odd light of a rainy afternoon, and said, "I bet Mrs. Bell would appreciate some help with lunch," and took the boys downstairs.

\-----

When Alex came to pick up Samuel that afternoon, I told him about the lady in the painting -- better he hear it from me, I figured, than an exaggerated version from Samuel. Alex looked down at Samuel as he brushed his hand through the boy's thick hair, and said, "I suppose it's been a spooky sort of day."

"She was a scary lady, Daddy," said Samuel solemnly.

"We'll talk about it at home," Alex said, and shook my hand. "See you next week, Malcolm, Caleb."

We watched them go down the steps to Alex's car, parked in the drive, and Caleb held my leg and looked up at me. "Willie put the painting away for a while," I told him. "We'll see what Uncle Noel has to say."

I didn't say anything about it to Emmanuel at supper, nor did he ask about playtime except to growl, "All your toys put up, boy?" and Caleb nodded.

"The boys are very good about that," I said; I helped, of course, but they never whined or dragged their feet. Julia must have taught Samuel to pick up after himself from early on, and I suspected Grace had taught Caleb the same thing.

Emmanuel merely grunted, and that was all the conversation for that evening.

We didn't expect Noel back until late, but still Caleb clung to me when it came time to give him to Mrs Bell. "It's bedtime, peanut," I said. "Uncle Noel will be home when you wake up in the morning."

He lay his head on my shoulder. I patted his back and looked helplessly at Mrs. Bell.

"Come along, sugar," she said. "Mr. Malcolm can't read you your bedtime story if you're not in bed."

As strategies went, it was a fair one; Caleb pulled himself out of my arms reluctantly and took Mrs Bell's hand, and kept his eyes on me until they were through the sitting room door.

I got to my feet and snapped off the radio. Part of me wanted to look at the painting again, to see if her expression changed in the lamplight; but looking after Caleb, I reminded myself, was more important than letting my own imagination run amok. Still, I was antsy for Noel to come home so I could talk to him about this latest development -- so I could talk to Noel, period.

It would have to wait. Fresh from his bath, Caleb listened to another chapter of _Peter Pan_ and we said a bedtime prayer. I tucked him in and let Tumnus get comfortable in her usual nook beside him. I turned on his nightlight and sat on the edge of his bed.

"Uncle Noel will be home by morning," I said again. "Sleep tight, peanut."

He smiled faintly and held my hand.

I had told Noel there wasn't much music left in me since the war; but sometimes I could scrape up a little. I loosely held his hand and softly sang, " _Dodo, l'enfant do, l'enfant dormira bien vite. Dodo, l'enfant do, l'enfant dormira bientôt._ "

\-----

I woke to the sound of the Packard coming up the drive. It was early, before sunrise but the light is still pale and gray as if lightly drawn in pencil. I got out of bed and put on a dressing gown, put my sketchbook in my pocket, and went to the vestibule to wait for Willie and Noel to come through the main doors.

It was only a few minutes' wait, Noel first, followed by Willie, who was carrying his valise. "I'll take it from here," Noel said and took the valise. "Thank you, Willie. Get some sleep."

"Good night, Mr. Noel," Willie said and went through the passage to his quarters.

Noel gave me a tired smile as he climbed the stairs. "You're up early."

"I was awake," I said with a shrug. I offered my hand to take the valise but Noel shook his head.

"I've got it. Thanks." We went down the passage to his room, and I eased into Noel's armchair as he began to unpack his valise.

"How is Caleb? Has he had any bad dreams?" he said as he put his worn clothing into the laundry hamper.

"Not that I've noticed," I said. "Mrs. Bell hasn't said anything about it. But, Noel, something odd happened yesterday."

"Oh?" he said, wearily, and I pressed my lips together.

"It can wait until you've slept."

"No, tell me now." He sat on the edge of the bed nearest me.

"He and Samuel were playing in the passage outside the school room, and they said -- well, Samuel said, but Caleb agreed with him -- that the woman in one of the paintings growled at them." Noel sighed, and I said, "It's entirely possible it was just lightning and shadows -- it was very stormy yesterday -- but I had Willie take the painting down anyway, at least for now."

"What was the painting of?"

"A beautiful Negro woman in a turban."

Noel nodded slowly, looking serious. "Supposedly Achille Thibodeaux had a Haitian mistress. That's said to be a portrait of her, though given the dating of the painting it's probably by someone who never saw herand only knew her by the story."

"Possibly," I said, and then took the sketchbook out of my pocket. "Or by someone who did." I opened it to the picture of the ghost I had drawn, and handed it to Noel. "I saw her in one of the windows that night we were in the garden."

He took the sketchbook, frowning more as he gazed at the picture, and he gave the book back to me. "You must have seen the portrait and didn't remember it. You're in that passage all the time." He gave me a faint smile. "And you'd been taking your medicine."

"Marijuana doesn't cause hallucinations," I said, "no matter what _Reefer Madness_ says." Noel sighed, and I said, "Look, I know something's going on in this house. I've seen things, I've heard things --"

"Please stop," Noel said, his tone quiet and tired, and I shut my mouth. "This is an old house, Malcolm. It's got a sad and bloody history. Just -- just let it be."

I frowned down at the picture, and said, "Fine, all right," as I put the book away. "Good night, Noel." I took my cane and hauled myself up.

"Your sister sends her love," Noel said as I started to leave the room.

I paused and looked back at him. "How are they?"

"Faring well," Noel said. "She's -- bonny. That's the right word, isn't it? She's a bonny lass. She's someone I like being around."

"I'm glad." I paused, then said, "Did you see Oliver?"

Noel's brows furrowed, and he got up again to finish unpacking. "He was there."

"I'm not jealous," I said. "I just want to know."

Noel held a pair of Oxfords, his thumb brushing over the leather as if there was a smudge only he could see. "I saw Oliver at our client meeting. But I had little time for socializing and what I did have, I spent with your sister and your brother-in-law and your niece."

I exhaled, and then scrubbed my hands over my face. "I'm sorry. I'm ridiculous."

Noel paused, then came to me and wound an arm around my neck. He ruffled my hair with his knuckles. "You're the best kind of ridiculous."

I pushed his hand away with a, "Knock it off," but I was smiling.


	17. An Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously..
>
>>   
> "You're the best kind of ridiculous."  
> 

Caleb was overjoyed to see Noel in the morning, and giggled and squirmed as Noel scooped him up and gave him several noisy kisses on his face and neck.

"Did you miss me?" Noel asked him and Caleb nodded vigorously. "I missed you. Mr. Malcolm said you got my postcard and drew me a city. Will you show it to me after church?"

More nodding from Caleb, his arms around Noel's neck, and he didn't let Noel put him down until it was time to get in the Packard, no matter how thundery Emmanuel looked as he walked behind them.

I waved as they drove off, and took my time getting ready to go out myself. No church for me, of course -- not even a mystical city like New Orleans overcame a life of agnosticism -- but Rene Gaspard had invited me to meet him and Angelique for breakfast that morning, and I took them up on it eagerly. Between all the goings-on in Fidele, I hadn't made time to come into the city for a few weeks, and I missed them.

They were waiting for me at one of the outdoor tables at a tiny cafe in the Quarter, its wrought-iron balcony dripping with orange and yellow zinnias. As it usually did, Angelique's gaze darted over my shoulder when she saw me, but she smiled cheerfully and allowed me to kiss her cheek.

"Sit, Sarge," Rene said as he rose and pulled out a chair for me. "Why you insist on walking so much, I'll never know."

"I like to prove that I can," I said, but was grateful to take the chair. I had parked nearly two blocks away from the cafe -- this part of the city had not modernized itself with parking lots yet, and it was all the prettier for it. Unfortunately, my bad leg did not appreciate beauty.

We chatted about their wedding plans -- the date was set for early February, shortly before Lent -- and how things were going with Caleb as we waited for our food, and once the waitress had brought of our beignets and omelets Angelique said, "Did you ever celebrate Halloween as a boy, Malcolm?"

"We did," I said. "Parties, mostly."

"We're going to throw a house party for the neighborhood this year," Angelique said. "Music and food and games, adults as well as children, costumes optional. Do you think Caleb would like to come?"

"Do you think Mr. Thibodeaux the Younger would let him come?" interjected Rene.

"I don't know," I said to both questions. "Caleb hasn't spent much time around other children lately, though he's made friends with the farm manager's little boy. And Noel's very protective of him."

"If the plan is to get Caleb ready to go to school someday," Angelique said, "being around other children sometimes might help prepare him, even before he's ready to speak again."

"I don't know what the plan is, exactly," I said. "If it's dependent on him deciding to speak again, I may be in New Orleans until he's ready to go to college. I'll ask Noel about the party, and try to convince him it'll be a good idea."

"Try to convince Noel it would be a good idea for him to come, too," said Angelique, and Rene nodded in agreement as his thumb affectionately brushed her shoulder -- a gesture that made me wistful. I was glad for them -- glad that Rene had found a happy life in the wake of the war -- but envious, too, because even if I had a sweetheart we wouldn't be able to trade such gestures with each other.

Angelique added softly, distracting me from this train of thought, "It might be good for all three of you to be out of the house that night," and I gave her a curious look.

"Why do you think so?"

"Oh," she said with a one-shouldered shrug. "I think the distraction would do you all good, is all. Some fun and silliness instead of dwelling on loss."

"I'll have to use that argument with Noel," I said, and the conversation moved on to other things.

\-----

When I returned from the city, the rest of the household had returned from church and eaten lunch. I found Noel and Caleb in the sitting room, drawing pictures together as they listened to twangy, old-timey country music on the radio.

Caleb hopped up and ran to me, to show me the new pictures of the candy city he and Noel had drawn. Noel had labeled the buildings things like BANK and CHURCH in his tidy draftsman hand and Caleb had added all the color and decorations, which I duly admired before giving the drawings back.

"I need to talk to Uncle Noel for a few minutes," I said, and Noel looked up from his sketch -- not much different from his building designs, I thought, even if it was drawn in blunt purple crayon -- as Caleb lay on the floor again and started a new picture.

"Do you usually do something for Halloween?" I asked Noel.

He shrugged. "I think children trick-or-treat in the city, but we've never done much out here. The bigger holiday is All Saints, on the first."

"What do you do for All Saints?"

"Take flowers to the family tombs."

"Oh," I said, not sure what sort of questions would follow that. I said, "We would have Halloween parties with costumes and bobbing for apples, and we'd tell ghost stories, and sometimes we'd even put on a spook alley."

"Indeed," Noel said, entirely neutral. Caleb went on coloring, adding a small fluffy gray cat perched on the roof of his building. (This, I feel I should mention, was a reoccurring theme with him.)

"The point is," I said, "I had breakfast with Rene Gaspard. He and his fiancee are throwing a house party for their neighborhood on Halloween, with games for the kids and dancing for the adults, and candy and food for everybody. Costumes optional, so I'm sure a lot of people will be in their street clothes." Noel went on gazing at me as if I were discussing the weather. "We're invited. The three of us."

Caleb dropped his crayon and gave Noel a look that I couldn't quite read -- either he was terrified of the idea, or so excited he didn't know how to react. Noel ruffled Caleb's hair.

"I don't know, Malcolm. I don't know if Caleb is ready for parties, and I'm not fond of them myself."

Caleb turned that look to me, and I decided it meant he wanted to go -- was desperate to go, maybe. Grace and Simon, I suspected, were far more social than Noel.

"Games, though, Noel," I said. "Pin the tail on the donkey, maybe? Blind man's bluff? Bobbing for apples?" Caleb started nodding, and I grinned. "Other kids to play Let's Pretend with?"

Noel looked at Caleb too, and sighed. "If Caleb wants to go, he may," he said. "I'll pass."

"It might be a nice way to work off some steam," I said in my most persuasive tone. "You don't even need to dress up."

"I don't have time for parties, Malcolm."

"You don't make time for parties," I countered, and he sighed. "I'm sure your coworkers will be going to parties themselves that night, or taking their children trick-or-treating. You could swap funny stories in the morning."

Noel huffed, and reached out to pet Tumnus as she pranced across the room to Caleb. She paused to allow it, and then went to Caleb and rubbed her chin on his cheek. From the way she treated him, I often thought she thought Caleb was her kitten.

I said, "You ought to get used to parties, anyway, Noel. The holiday season is coming up. Thanksgiving, Christmas. New Year's Eve," I crooned and reached out myself to play with Noel's hair.

He shivered, ever-so-slightly. "I have never observed Thanksgiving outside of the army, and we don't celebrate Christmas in this house."

Caleb looked up playing with Tumnus at that, frowning.

"I think Thanksgiving is brilliant and the rest of the family would like it," I said, "and you need to celebrate Christmas. There's a child in this house now. Children need Christmas."

Noel raised an eyebrow at me. "You can be very persuasive, Malcolm, but I think you're going to lose this one."

I grinned at him. "It's a long time until Christmas." I said to Caleb, "What about Halloween, peanut? Would you like to go to the party? Maybe dress up as a cowboy?" He had the costume already in his closet, a simple affair of a vest, child-sized ten-gallon hat, sheriff's badge, and popgun in a plastic holster.

He nodded, but then looked thoughtful and picked up one of the coloring books he and Noel had brought to the sitting room -- rarely used, as he preferred to draw his own pictures -- and paged through it. He found what he was looking for and showed the picture to me.

It was a knight. I had to smile.

"You can be a knight if you'd rather," I said, and he hugged the coloring book to his chest, nodding vigorously.

"I'm outnumbered," Noel observed. "You two go and have fun."

Caleb leaned against Noel, lips in a pout. Noel tilted his head, brows furrowed, and then laughed. "Don't try that look on me. I know that look."

Caleb put his arms around Noel's neck and kissed his cheek.

"Help," Noel said to me.

"Nope," I said. "Come to the party with us, Uncle Noel. Please? Please please please?"

Caleb nodded to each 'please' and gave him more kisses.

"We could all dress as knights," I offered, and at the glare Noel turned on me I laughed and said, "Or maybe just Caleb will be a knight and we'll be two regular people. I don't care either way, to be honest. I just want you to be there with us."

Noel scowled, and Caleb scowled right back and pressed their noses together. This made Noel's lips twitch, and he said, "All right, fine," and Caleb hugged him tight with glee.

\-----

A few days after Noel returned from Chicago, I received my weekly letter from Mary Kate. As usual she started out with news of Rosemary, the sweetest and most brilliant baby to ever live, and "my sweet George"; then she said,

_As you said he might, Noel Thibodeaux called while he was here. He took us out to dinner at the Walnut House (it's inside the Macy's, and much ritzier than you might think for a restaurant inside a department store) though to be honest I think it was because it didn't occur to him we'd be just as happy with ice cream at Margie's, rather than because he was trying to impress us. At any rate, he was just as charming as he was the first time he visited, and truly sweet with Rosemary. I can see why he and Caleb are so devoted to each other, if he is this good with all the children he meets._

_He also wanted to know more about you, so I had a marvelous time telling him what a brat you are. I hope this doesn't put him off._

_Though seriously, he strikes me as a terribly lonely. I wanted to invite him to stay with us rather than at a hotel, just so he'd have some company in the morning. I didn't, as that would be perhaps too odd for so new an acquaintance, but I did tell him to take care of you and to let you take care of him when we said good night._

_So, Mal dear, take care of Noel Thibodeaux. Somebody needs to, and I suspect that somebody best be you._

_Love always,_  
_Mary Kate_

I tucked the letter away with the rest of her correspondence, thinking about her last admonition. I hadn't told her of the growing affection between Noel and I, but now I wondered if she might understand more than I had previously thought.

I knew Noel was lonely. I knew it as well as I knew Caleb was the center of his world. What I didn't know was _why_ \-- why someone so handsome, so kind, so bruised, as Noel would think he had to be alone.

Whatever he was afraid of, whatever fear was holding him back, I wanted to smash it to pieces.

I also didn't know how to go about convincing him he had nothing to fear. I knew he was brave, but there's brave and then there's foolhardy, and fear is the line that separates the two.

Fear can keep a soldier alive. But when you're a civilian again and supposedly safe, fear can paralyze.

I grabbed my pencil and the sketchbook with my comic, and drew Sir Errant and Sir Tristan comparing battle scars. I felt that way with Noel sometimes, though only mine were visible on my skin. Drawing the scene didn't give me any insight into how to help Noel, but as always creating something made my thoughts feel less knotted. It would come to me, I thought. When the time was right, I'd know what to do.

\-----

There was a strange sense in the house as October drew on, like an indrawn breath, waiting to exhale.

We had been raised to be skeptical of superstitions, but I was still exposed to them growing up -- particularly the Celtic belief that at Samhain the veil between the living and the dead was so thin it might as well not exist. Given all the activity I had already seen at Fidele, I expected there to be a new event every day leading up to Halloween -- but as if only to be contrary, aside from the occasional bout of me sleepwalking, nothing out of the ordinary occurred.

Caleb was so excited about the Halloween party that he could barely concentrate during school hours, and drew knights and dragons and horses during playtime. To keep him focused we worked on his costume a little bit every day: we got pieces of cardboard that we cut and decorated with Elmer's glue, and then painted silver to look like hammered armor. I painted a gold fleur-de-lis on the breastplate and shield, and Mrs. Bell bought a new feather duster for us to plunder so the helmet could have a crest of yellow feathers.

A few days before Halloween, the costume was finished. Noel and I put Caleb in it to make sure he could move, put the plastic sword around his waist and gave him his hobby horse to be his charger, and he galloped up and down the passages and brandished his sword at the paintings.

From the top of the stairs, Noel watched Caleb gallop about, a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. I sat on the top step of the staircase nearby, working on another piece of costume, and smiled to myself too.

"Come here," I said. "I have something for you." Noel looked skeptical, but sat on the stair beside me. "Close your eyes." He did so, and I placed a dragon half-mask on his face and tied it at the back of his head. "There."

He laughed and felt the mask. It was simply made, just modeling clay and cardboard that I had painted iridescent green, and tied with black ribbons. His striking eyes looked even more blue as he looked at me through the eye slits.

"And what will you be?"

I picked up another dragon mask, this one painted red. Noel laughed, genuinely, and put it on me.

"I think our story is that we are the dragons he tamed, and now he keeps us as pets," I said as he tied the red ribbons. "We assist him in his crusade against bedtime."

He pushed the mask off his face, making the snout look like it sprouted from his forehead. "As long as I can just wear a T-shirt with this, I'll go along with any story you like."

"Black T-shirts and dungarees should do," I said. I adjusted the mask over my nose. "What do you think?"

"You look very dangerous," Noel said solemnly, but gave me the little squint he used instead of winking. I grinned back, pleased.

Caleb galloped to us and threw himself into Noel's lap. Noel caught him and gave him noisy kisses on his neck. "Careful, peanut," he said and undid the snaps on Caleb's armor. "You don't want to crush your costume before the party."

Caleb sulked a little but still let Noel help him out of his armor, and we took all the pieces to store in the schoolroom until the big day.

Mrs. Bell appeared in the doorway. "Bath time, Caleb."

He looked up at Noel pleadingly, and Noel stooped to kiss his hair. "Mind Mrs. Bell, peanut. We'll play more tomorrow."

Caleb sighed heavily and went to Mrs. Bell, dragging his feet.

"I'll come kiss you good night later," Noel said as Mrs. Bell took Caleb off for his bath, and then leaned against the bookcase, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He looked at me. "He's okay, isn't he?"

"He's okay," I said. "He's just being a kid."

Noel nodded, though there was a worried set to his mouth. "I'm still not convinced taking him to a party is a good idea. What if he hates it?"

"Then we'll leave early." I moved to lean against the bookcase beside him. "And if you hate it, we'll leave early."

His head lowered, Noel smiled, small but genuine. "Not if Caleb is having a good time," he murmured, and then looked up at me. "And not if you're having a good time, too."

"I won't have any fun if you're not."

He smiled again, then pushed himself off the bookcase. "Well. I have work I should be doing." He started to leave the schoolroom, then paused at the door and turned back to me. "Thank you for making his Halloween so special, Malcolm."

"That's what I'm here for," I said.

Noel smiled again, small, and left. I sighed, told myself to stop being ridiculous, and turned to arrange the dragon masks around Caleb's shield and helm in a more aesthetically pleasing manner.

A few minutes passed -- trying to distract myself made me particular -- when I heard a creak at the door. I turned, ready to make a joke to Noel, but the doorway was empty.

The room was warm but still I shivered. I braced myself for a scream, an apparition, even the pungent smell of burnt sugar -- but instead there was only a whiff of scent, delicate and pretty, as a ghostly fingers brushed my cheek.

Despite the goosebumps on my arms, the touch was comforting. I closed my eyes, and that's when I placed the scent, like the house of my childhood on baking days.

Whoever that was, they smelled of vanilla.


	18. The Halloween Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>>   
>  _So, Mal dear, take care of Noel Thibodeaux. Somebody needs to, and I suspect that somebody best be you._   
> 

Halloween night, we approached Rene's neighborhood slowly and carefully due to the many groups of children out on the streets. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were decorated, some simply with a jack o' lantern or two on their front porch, some elaborately with entire nightmare scenes in their small front yards -- molded plastic skeletons hung from trees like puppets, mock headstones planted in the grass, or in one inventive scene, a woman dressed as a witch who stirred an enormous pot that billowed smoke made by dry ice. The children were dressed as ghosts and witches, with a fairy princess here or a horned demon there. Driving slowly as we were, with the roof of the Jaguar down, we could hear their cheerful cries of "Trick or treat!" when the homeowner answered the doorbell.

Wedged between Noel and I in the front seat of the Jaguar, Caleb watched the children with wide eyes. His hand crept into mine and I gave it a squeeze. "There will be other children at the party," I said, which I had told him before but it never hurt to say it again. "They're Mr. Rene's nieces and nephews, and his friends' children, and they're very nice. And Uncle Noel and I will always be where you can easily find us, if you need to. Okay?"

He squeezed my hand back and nodded. Okay.

Noel found a place to park the Jaguar around the corner from the Gaspard house. We walked down the block, Caleb between us and holding both our hands as Noel carried Caleb's sword and hobby horse, and I carried his shield and our masks. We could hear the music from the party from three houses away, and the house itself was ablaze with light. The front walk was lined with jack o'lanterns, their eyes and toothy mouths flickering with candle light.

A sign pinned to the front door bade us to COME ON IN!!! but we paused first, to get Caleb's sword belted around his waist and for Noel and I to put on our dragon masks. As I tied Noel's mask around his head, he said quietly to me, "And if I need you, shall I come find you too?"

"Always," I said, and we entered the house.

Despite our masks and the sheer number of people inside -- neighbors, friends, Gaspards by the score -- Rene spotted us as we lingered uncertainly by the door. "Sarge!" he cried and came to shake my hand with both of his. "Welcome, welcome. Happy Halloween." He beamed down at Caleb, and Caleb gave him a cautious smile in return as he clung to Noel's trouser leg.

I said, "Rene, this is Noel Thibodeaux and Caleb Thibodeaux," and he shook hands with Noel, too.

"Welcome, Mr. Thibodeaux, young Master Thibodeaux. Come on in. Do you want to eat first or socialize a bit first?"

"Socialize, I would think," I said, and looked at Noel for confirmation.

"Caleb may need something to eat soon," Noel said. "It's about our usual suppertime."

"Of course," said Rene and called over his shoulder, "Angelique!" As she came out of the party to join us, dressed in the brightly-colored skirts and scarves of a fortune teller, he explained, "We have a meal arranged for the children and buffet for the adults. Everyone should get fed before much longer."

Angelique joined us, slipping her arm through Rene's, and I was glad to see she didn't react with the usual start when she saw me. Rene said to her, "Noel and Caleb Thibodeaux, ma belle. I think Caleb would like to play some games before we get out supper, don't you?"

"I think he would," she said and held out her hand. "Will you come with me, Caleb?"

He looked at Noel, and Noel said, "We'll come get you when it's time to go home, peanut. Or you can always ask Miss Angelique to find us if you need us, like Mr. Malcolm said."

Caleb hitched his shield on his arm and put his hand in Angelique's, and she took him into a hallway off the main set of rooms. "Drinks now," Rene said to us. "Come on. The beer is cold and the music's hot." He guided us into the party too, stopping often to say to other guests, "You remember Malcolm Carmichael, oui? This is Noel Thibodeaux," so we could shake hands and say hello.

In the courtyard behind the house, the party was in full swing. People danced to a zydeco band, or ate from paper plates piled high with food from a long buffet table. The air was rich with the scent of barbecue on the grill, and at both ends of the table were washtubs filled with ice and bottles of beer. It was still warm despite it being the end of October, so different from the chilly autumns I remembered in San Francisco. Many of the adults around us were in costume -- southern belles and dandies, witches, scarecrows, cats -- but I was glad to see that Noel and I were not the only ones who had opted to costume ourselves as simply as possible, if not wear street clothes outright.

Rene ushered Noel and I to one of the little tables set up around the courtyard, and fetched the three of us bottles of beer. "Salute," he said and we replied, "Salute," and the three of us clinked our bottles together before we drank.

"What do you do, Mr. Thibodeaux?" Rene said.

"I'm a water engineer."

"Oh," Rene said and looked at me helplessly.

Noel explained, "My company designs and maintains water supply systems, mostly for housing developments in the south and midwest. We want to expand to the west, eventually, and I'd love to get my hands on a project like that -- it's easy where water is abundant, but where it's scarce but people still want to live? That's a real challenge."

I tilted my head, and Rene and I smiled at each other. Noel frowned in response. "What?"

"I like it when you talk about things that interest you," I said and had a swig of beer. Noel got that unsettled look that meant he didn't know how to react, and had a swig too.

He said to Rene, "What do you do, Mr. Gaspard?"

"I work at my papa's garage. One thing I did well in in the war was keep our vehicles running, even German-made ones."

"Rene was always the best of us at hot-wiring," I said.

Noel nodded and looked away as he sipped his beer.

"Noel was in the Pioneer Troops," I told Rene.

"Merde, son," said Rene, looking at Noel now with admiration.

"Yeah," Noel murmured, looking now at his boots.

"You should have worn your uniform tonight," Rene told him. "Your medals would have the girls swooning at your feet."

"I--" He looked at me. "Um--"

Rene laughed. "Well, whoever you want to make swoon."

Noel glanced at me, and then looked away again as he drank.

"Well," Rene said, rising, "if you both are settled, I will get back to being host. See you later, oui?"

"See you later," I said. He chucked my shoulder and went to another group of guests, slapping two of them on the back as he joined them. I loved seeing him like this -- happy, social, in his element.

Noel and I stayed at the table for a while in companionable silence. Every now and then, we were joined for a few minutes by members of the Gaspard family or friends Rene had introduced to me at the Apple Barrel, but mostly we were left to listen to the music and enjoy our drinks.

Noel had said little. He greeted people easily enough, but did not participate in small talk -- it was not something he liked doing, I had noticed that before. With the dragon mask pushed up to his forehead so he could drink easily, his eyes scanned the crowd before they fixed on something innocuous like his boots whenever someone joined us.

Finally, I said, gesturing to the girls clustered near us who had been eyeing us and whispering to each other all evening, "Noel, ask someone to dance."

"I don't know anyone well enough."

"I don't think that matters much."

He looked at me skeptically, and then pulled the dragon mask back over his face and went to the group of girls. They all looked hopeful, and while it was too noisy for me to hear what any of them said, after a few minutes of back-and-forth Noel took a girl who was dressed like a medieval princess out onto the dance floor.

I exhaled, glad he was taken care of, and as I sipped my beer I realized now I was left at loose ends. I couldn't dance, which meant I was of no interest to the girls. Most of the party-goers were paired off or clustered in groups of friends, and while I was friendly with many of them, I was not friends with any.

I saw Dorian in line at the buffet table and started to get up to join him, when I saw that he and the man beside him were whispering and smiling to each other the way that new lovers do. I sighed, dropped my finished beer into a bucket marked EMPTY BOTTLES, and went into the house to see if there was something there for me to do.

 

***

 

I had a peek on the children, to see how Caleb was doing. Evidence of their supper -- watermelon rinds, a few leftover burgers, and bowls that held the crumbs of potato chips -- was still on a small round table, and they were playing now games: one of Rene's sisters and her sweetheart had tied doughnuts to strings and hung them from a pole that they held just above the children's heads, and the children were trying to eat them without using their hands. There was a lot of giggling, and Caleb looked so happy that I quietly backed away from the door before I distracted him from the game.

In the sitting room, away from the band, Mrs. Gaspard sat at the upright piano and played for a group gathered around to sing. Rene was deep in conversation with some of his neighbors; he noticed me ambling about and gestured for me to join them, but I waved him off and went back outside.

I wasn't particularly hungry yet, but the scent of barbecue was tantalizing enough to make me consider getting a plate of food. The trouble was, of course, holding the plate and my cane at the same time, and I decided it wasn't worth the trouble.

Most of the tables were occupied by this time, but there was an empty chair at the table where Dorian and his friend sat. I paused, not wanting to intrude, when he saw me and waved me over. "Malcolm! Come sit with us."

I took the empty chair, and Dorian wiped his mouth with a napkin, beaming. "Malcolm Carmichael, this is Christopher Timms."

"Mr. Timms," I said and we reached over the table to shake hands. He was a tanned, dark-haired fellow, handsome in a regal sort of way, with a soft voice and a Boston accent. Neither of them had bothered with costumes.

"Christopher was one of our mechanics during the war," Dorian told me. "He's going to Loyala."

"Are you in law school too?" I asked him.

"I'm studying to be a pharmacist," he said. "Are you a student, Mr. Carmichael?"

"I'm a private tutor," I said. "School's a bit behind me now. My student is Caleb Thibodeaux, one of the children playing with Danielle Gaspard inside."

"I saw his costume," Dorian said. "He makes a fine knight."

"Thank you," I said. I lowered the dragon mask, shoved out of the way all evening so I could drink easily, back into place. "Noel and I are his pet dragons."

Dorian and Christopher both laughed, and I suppose the mask and the laughter got Noel's attention because I heard Dorian exclaim, "Noel, do join us!"

"Thank you," Noel said and sat at the table beside me, and there were a few minutes of jostling and introductions. "I saw Malcolm had his mask on." He lowered his as well, and put his arm around my shoulders.

"I wish I'd thought to bring my camera," Dorian said. "I'd love to get a picture of you three in costume."

"You'll have to come by Fidele again sometime," Noel said.

Dorian's eyes met mine, and he smiled a tiny bit. I suppose it was obvious to someone who had seen us together before, that we were more comfortable with each other than we had been. I smiled back a tiny bit myself and leaned back against Noel's arm.

"What's Fidele?" Christopher asked Noel.

"The family plantation," Noel said. "It's more of a farm now, really. We've sold a lot of the land to the forestry department of Louisiana Polytechnic."

"No more sharecroppers picking cotton?"

"Sugar," Noel said. "No, no more sharecroppers. There haven't been any since I was a boy."

"How fortunate for them."

Noel said mildly, "The world's moved on," and said to me, "Are you hungry, Malcolm? I'll get you a plate."

"Yes, please," I said, and Noel nodded and left the table.

"Noel Thibodeaux is a decent man, Chris," Dorian said quietly.

"People act like the Civil War never happened down here," Christopher replied. "It's not the antebellum south anymore, but you'd never know it with _plantations_ still around."

"It's like he said," I said. "The world's moved on. Fidele pays its laborers a good wage. I've seen the books."

Christopher snorted and sipped his beer.

Dorian sighed and said, "Come on, let's dance."

Wordlessly, Christopher rose, and they went out onto the dance floor. This surprised me less than it would have two months ago -- the Gaspards did not limit their friendship to anyone, and Dorian and Christopher were not even the only men dancing together even in this little crowd.

Noel returned a few minutes after Christopher and Dorian left, with two plates piled high with barbecue, corn on the cob, and slices of chocolate cake. "Mr. Timms didn't want to sit with a plantation owner, I take it," he said as he set one of the plates in front of me.

"I'm sorry about that."

He shrugged. "It happens. Yankees." He had stuck two more bottles of beer in his pocket, and gave one to me.

I smiled to myself as I took my plate. "I don't count as a Yankee anymore, I suppose?"

"As you like to remind me, you're not a Yankee," he answered, smiling at me in his most genuine way. "You're a cowboy." He bit into his corn on the cob.

A stray kernel stuck to his chin, and I reached over to wipe it off with my forefinger. Halfway into the reach, my hand shifted and I wiped it off with the pad of my thumb, instead. Noel's eyes closed and his lips parted, and he rubbed his mouth against my wrist for just a moment.

"You've got to stop doing that, Malcolm," he muttered and sat back in his chair. "Eat your food."

I grinned at him and dug in. "You're glad you came even so, right?"

"I am," Noel said. "It's a nice party." He looked back at the house. "I still want to check on Caleb, though. I'm forcing myself not to."

"I had a look on him earlier," I said, "and he seemed to be having fun. But if you need to--"

He shook his head. "I should let him be. He's proved he knows how to take care of himself if he needs to."

"Let's hope he doesn't headbutt anyone tonight, though."

Noel huffed. "Let's hope."

We ate, watching the dancers and enjoying the music, and when our plates were empty except for the last crumbs of cake, Noel leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. He looked from the floor to me a few times, and then he stood and held out his hand to me.

"What?" I said.

"Dance with me."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"We're ridiculous already," Noel said. "Come on."

I held up my cane. "And the third wheel?"

"We'll make it work. Don't leave me standing here, cowboy."

I sighed and put my hand in his, and we went out onto the dance floor.

Before the war, I loved to dance. I could do the lindy hop with the best of them, even though I preferred to dance with whoever I was going home with that night than any of the girls I partnered with. Since the war, of course, I had been too busy learning to walk again to think about dancing.

But here at the Gaspards', surrounded by people who loved to dance and didn't stop anyone else who did too, maybe I wouldn't make a fool of myself -- and I trusted Noel not to make a fool out of me.

The music had slowed down a bit as the night went on, and the current piece had a waltz tempo that brought more of the older folks out onto the floor.

Noel said, "Put your arms around my neck."

I did, though I warned him, "You'll have to help keep me upright."

"Pretty sure I can do that," he said as he put his arms around my waist, my cane in his grasp. We danced, slowly, as far as you can call swaying together dancing.

After a verse or so, I lay my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. One of his hands left my waist and lay on the back of my neck, and he stroked my hair.

I whispered, "Whatever's gotten into you, I like it."

He chuckled and didn't answer. I knew what it was, anyway -- no one knew him here, not really, and he could hide behind a mask if he wanted to even though the dragon mask had spent most of the night shoved up to his forehead rather than covering his face. No matter -- it meant he felt safe enough to be himself for once, not the war hero, not the distinguished citizen, not the respectable son, but just a man who liked men and liked to dance.

The song ended and I lifted my head. Noel gave me my cane. "Malcolm," he began, but then a pair of hands clapped me on the shoulders.

"Sarge!" Rene said. "Part of the evening's entertainment is ma belle Angelique telling fortunes. Would either of you like your palms read?"

"All right," Noel said, his face going back to its usual neutral expression.

I sighed and said, "Sure," and we went with Rene into the house.

 

***

 

Angelique had set up a table in the kitchen and decorated it with a brightly-patterned tablecloth, fabric flowers, sugar skulls, and a crystal ball that looked antique enough to have been brought from the Old Country. The woman whose palm she was currently reading was blushing and laughing, and the man next to her watched the proceedings eagerly, as if the future Angelique saw included him, as well.

Finally Angelique folded the woman's hand closed and the woman said, "Thank you, cherie," as she got up from the table.

"Bon chance," Angelique replied, and then caught sight of me. Her smile disappeared and she pressed her lips together uncertainly.

Rene didn't seem to notice. "Ma belle, I have a few more customers for you."

"Who would like to go first?" she asked.

Noel and I looked at each other, and Noel said, "I will," and sat in the empty chair beside Angelique. I took the other, and Noel held out both his hands. "Which one would you like?"

"That depends on whether you want insight into your life or if you want to learn what your future holds," said Angelique, as she picked up his left hand. She studied it with a faint frown.

"It looks like you've already chosen," Noel said.

She glanced up at him. "This is the hand that tells what you're born with -- the strengths and weaknesses that make up your character." She put his hand on the table and smoothed her palm over it. "You've got long fingers and palm, which means you're associated with water."

"I'm a water engineer," he said dryly.

"It's symbolic," Angelique said patiently. "If you're associated with water, it means you're creative, moody, most comfortable with your own company, and spend most of your time just quietly going about your business."

Noel looked at her for a long moment, and then gave a small nod.

Angelique stroked his palm with her thumbs. "You've had a hard time, emotionally," she said. "Your heart is very tender and easily broken. As a result, you don't give your love freely." Her thumb brushed a line that when from his palm to nearly touch his wrist. "Everything you have, you've made for yourself."

Noel watched her, expressionless, but his eyes were bright as if his emotions were threatening to overcome him.

"You've got some big decisions to make soon," Angelique said, still gazing at his hand. "It's against your nature to rush into them, but I think your intuition won't lead you astray."

She released his hand. Noel curled it, not quite a fist, and exhaled slowly. "Thank you." He swallowed.

"You're welcome, Mr. Thibodeaux," she said gently and patted his hand, and then turned to me.

I held out my right hand. "I think I'd like to know my future, as long as it's nothing too shocking."

"It rarely is," Angelique said as she took hold of my hand in both of hers. Noel watched her, his hands folded under his chin.

I said quietly, "I can't help but notice you're not terribly comfortable around me."

"Any friend of Rene's is a friend of mine," Angelique replied mildly, not looking up. "Though I am sad you and Dorian didn't work out."

"It must have been fate," I said lightly.

Angelique glanced up at me, then frowned at my hand. "You're fire," she said. "You act on instinct, and not always wisely. You're often controlled by your self-interest."

"Fair enough," I said.

"You're also selfish when it comes to love," she went on. "You like lovers who reflect well on you, even when the choice is unwise. But despite your faults, your family and friends love you deeply, and will always welcome you back when you go to them."

I cleared my throat. "That's my future? My family will always take care of me?"

"Your future," Angelique said in an absent sort of way, "is written by your past." She started to speak, then looked up at me, still holding my hand. "You died."

"Anyone who looks at me can see that."

"No," she said, "I don't mean that you were just terribly injured. You died. Not for long -- but just long enough."

Across the table, Noel shifted but didn't speak. I whispered, "Yes."

Her eyes searched my face. "They said it was a miracle you survived, didn't they? Another man would have died before the medics found him, but you -- you weren't done yet."

"I--" I swallowed.

Rene said, "Sarge?"

"It changed you," Angelique said, her voice calm, her expression compassionate. "The veil is thinner for you now than it was before the war, and than it is for most people. You're like a portal now -- the dead are drawn to you because they know you see them. You see them everywhere."

I swallowed again and nodded. Noel lowered his hands, his eyebrows furrowed.

"But of course the angry ones won't hurt you," Angelique said, "because Zachary is with you and is still looking out for you, just as he always has."

My eyes stung. I managed to say, "That's what you see?"

"Not in your palm," she said. "I see it almost every time I look at you. I've seen Zachary standing with you. He told me everything."

Rene squatted down beside me. "Sarge," he whispered, "I had no idea."

"I don't like to talk about it." I withdrew my hand from Angelique's grasp. My future, even for play, seemed irrelevant. "There's not really anything I can say, is there? My dead brother is still looking out for me. It's less reassuring than you might think. Thank you, Angelique."

I rose from the table as Angelique began, "Malcolm -- oh, don't be upset--"

"I'm not," I assured her and went to the front porch, away from the noise and press of people. I leaned against one of the pillars and forced myself to breathe deep and slow, staving off the panic that threatened to rise.


	19. Halloween Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously ...
>
>> "You died. Not for long -- but just long enough."

The door opened and closed behind me and I braced myself to pretend everything was fine, just fine -- until Noel slipped his arms around my waist from behind and rested his chin on my shoulder. I tipped back my head and closed my eyes, soothed by the brush of his breath against my cheek.

"I thought you might need a friend."

I choked out, "Thanks."

For a minute or two we stood there, his strength holding me up, until I said, "Angelique is right." My voice was thick. "I died in Germany."

He pressed our temples together.

"Just for a few seconds," I said. "In Hurtgen Forest, when I was shot. I remember it. I remember knowing I was going to die. I remember being at peace with it --" Noel tightened his arms around me again and I realized how badly I was shaking. "And then Zachary came to me," I said. "He'd been dead for a year by then. Died in the Pacific. He never fired a gun but they killed him anyway. He was my hero and he died."

"I'm sorry," Noel whispered. "I'm sorry you lost him."

"But he came to me then," I said. "I was dying and he came to me. He said I wasn't done yet. He said I had to hold on. So I did, and I lived, and I came home, and now Angelique says Zachary is with me and I know it's true, and she said the dead seek me out because they know I can see them and I know that's true, too."

Noel was quiet, still holding me tight. He said, "Let's sit," and drew me to the porch swing. I eased myself into it and put my cane aside, then leaned forward to cover my face with my hands.

Noel felt in his pocket, and then gave me a handkerchief. I laughed damply and wiped my face.

Noel sat beside me in silence until my breathing calmed and the shaking stopped, his hand rubbing light circles into my back. "Fireflies," he remarked. I looked up -- tiny spots of light danced among the oaks and cypresses. 

"We don't have them in California," I said, crumpling the damp handkerchief in my hand. "Too dry, I think."

"I never saw them in the Pacific. I missed them."

"I missed the smell of the ocean," I said. "I'd never been so far inland before until we got to France." I took a deep breath. "I tried to tell Mary Kate about Zachary once. She thought I was just having vivid dreams because I can't let Zachary go. I wish he were resting in peace, I really do. If he's staying with me, it's his choice, not mine."

"He's your big brother. Of course he wants to look after you."

I nodded and blew my nose, and watched the quiet street. Trick-or-treating had stopped hours before, and candles burned low in their jack o'lanterns.

I said, "Just like you and Simon."

Noel rocked the porch swing with his foot. He said simply, "Yes."

Well. There it was. 

I said, "That's him playing the piano at night, isn't it? I thought it was you, but it's not. It’s him."

"The music sounds like him. I assume it's him." He paused. "He loved music so much, even when we were kids. He figured out how notes go together when we were still tiny. Emmanuel wouldn't pay for lessons, of course, but Simon found people to teach him in the city. He'd write me letters about sneaking into speakeasies and cat houses, and then he'd take me when I was home over the summer."

"Cat houses, huh?" I said, and he huffed, a faint smile on his lips.

"You want to learn to play jazz, you have to go where jazz is being played."

I smiled too, but said, "Who is he protecting you from? Emmanuel?" Noel continued rubbing my back, slow and easy. "The other ghosts of Fidele?"

"I'm more afraid of Emmanuel than I am of any ghost," Noel said. "Even though I know he's an old man and can't hurt me anymore. It's a hard habit to break."

"But there are ghosts in Fidele. The woman I saw in the window, the one with the portrait -- and the other woman, the dark shape, who screams and jumps from the staircase --"

"That one has been around for as long as I remember."

"You've heard her. Seen her."

He nodded. "Ever since I was a baby. Mrs. Bell can tell you about it -- there were times she found me giggling or acting like someone was playing with me when no one was there." He studied me. "I do recall you saying previously that you didn't believe in ghosts."

"I don't. I believe in what I can see." I took another deep breath. "I saw my brother as I lay dying in Hurtgen Forest. I saw dead boys in the hospital in Virginia, just sitting on their made beds like they didn't know they had died. I saw ghosts of students at Goodwin who'd died a hundred years ago. I saw Oliver Davenport's dead grandfather reading in his study. I saw the ghost of my -- my best friend who died when we were kids, still in his parents' house. Just on the street, these faces, these people--" I had to stop and cover my face again.

Noel leaned against me, his arm around me, and rested his cheek on my shoulder. When I was calm enough to speak again, he said, "Even angry ones, like Angelique said?"

"Sometimes they're angry. They want to be seen. They want someone to acknowledge them, but they never stay near me long. I guess she's right about that, too, that Zachary drives them off."

"Our ghost scratches you." He touched my side lightly, where I'd shown him the scratches before. "I'm sorry about that."

"I guess he can't do everything."

"She scratches me, too." He lifted his shirt to show me a set of four scratches on his side, finger-width and red.

I touched them lightly, then smoothed down his shirt. "Who do you think she is?"

"When I was a child, I thought she was my mother." I leaned back at that, and he slid his arm around my shoulders. He said, "Grace thought it was Charlotte. Charlotte's is a sad tale -- she went mad, tried to kill her baby, and then killed herself."

"Rene told me about that story. So it's true?"

"Oh, yes, it's true." He said, like it was a relief to finally tell someone, "Sometimes she's just a presence -- a feeling in a room of cold or sadness. Or sounds -- footsteps, whispers, sobbing. That scream and the sound of falling, like you heard. Sometimes she's a shape, like you saw in Caleb's room. And sometimes she's -- I just know she's there. Watching me."

"I've felt that too. Just someone watching." We swung slowly in silence. I said, "Grace knew?"

"Grace knew everything about Fidele. She'd been friends with Simon since childhood. Her father was the farm manager until he passed, and then her mother passed a few months later. That was about a year after Grace and Simon married. They lived long enough to see Caleb born, at least.

"Grace was so clever," Noel went on, admiration in his tone. "Smarter than Simon and I put together. She loved the Thibodeaux history. She read everything she could get her hands on, old letters, newspaper clippings, parish records, local histories -- she was figuring out truth from rumor for years, and found something that confirmed the story about Charlotte. It was probably lost in the fire."

I nodded slowly. It made sense -- Charlotte had died under violent enough circumstances to create a ghost, if the stories were correct. And now she was haunting the house, hurting Noel, frightening Caleb. I scrubbed my hands over my face again.

"That's why you didn't want to bring Caleb to Fidele," I said. "You knew about the ghost and you didn't want him to be exposed to her."

"I wanted to keep her away from him as long as I could." Noel rocked the porch swing with his foot. "There was something else that Grace figured out. I didn't believe it when she told me, but I believe it now."

I looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

Noel stared out at the street. "Charlotte cursed the family that anyone who marries into it dies violently and too young."

"A curse, Noel," I said.

"You've seen the family Bible," Noel said. "You've seen the graves. Every woman who marries a Thibodeaux has died before her time. I think Simon and Grace only lived as long as they did because they lived in the city instead of at the house. They wouldn't even stay overnight."

"And then one night they did," I said.

"They were visiting Emmanuel," Noel said, "and there was a bad storm. He didn't want them driving through the bayou in that weather so they stayed the night, went back to the city in the morning, and that night--" He stopped, swallowed hard, and said, "That night was the fire."

I put my arm over his shoulders and pulled him to me. He leaned close with a sigh. I kissed his hair and patted his back, and finally said, "Well, you can't marry me, so that settles that problem."

He huffed, startled. "Malcolm--"

"If all it takes is marrying into the family, then whatever we do, it won't matter. We can't get married. We can just fuck around."

Noel gazed at me, then back out at the street. "I prefer to keep my partners short-term. This is why. Even before I knew about the curse, I knew I couldn't endanger anyone by loving them."

I rocked the swing slowly. "You don't have to love me to fuck me."

Noel laughed again, quiet and tinged with sadness. "Shut up."

"Make me." I knocked my shoulder against his, and he knocked me right back.

"You're good for Caleb." He looked at me. "I am not going to take any chances with you."

"You spent the entire war taking chances."

"That's different. That's just me. I won't take chances with other people."

I sighed slowly. "I won't take chances with you, either." Still, I took his hand, and he wove our fingers together.

"I'll find a way to get Caleb out of Fidele," Noel said. "You should find someone you can have fun with. Don't think about me."

I whispered, "I can't."

"You can't have fun with someone else?" he asked, smiling.

"I can't not think about you," I said, not smiling at all.

Noel's smile changed to the one I liked best, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and little more. He looked down at our hands. "I'm not going to just fuck you," he said quietly. "It's too late for that."

I was too dumbstruck to answer -- and was spared saying anything when the door opened and Angelique poked her head out.

"Malcolm? Noel? Are you all right?"

"We're all right," Noel said and pulled his hand from mine. "I think I should find Caleb. It's about his bedtime." He went into the house.

Angelique started to follow him, and then turned and came out to me. "And you? Do you forgive me?"

"Of course I do. Mostly I'm glad that you don't dislike me because I remind Rene of the war."

"Oh, cher," she said and cupped my face in her palm. "If I wanted to dislike you, I'm sure I could find a legitimate reason." She patted my cheek and went back inside.

I stayed on the porch, feeling weirdly adrift and relieved at once. It was freeing to not have Zachary a secret anymore, and to know that the sounds I'd been hearing, the shapes I'd seen, even the scratches I'd received, weren't signs I was losing my mind.

On the other hand, it also meant knowing how trapped Noel was -- not just by Emmanuel's threats but by his family's history, by the house itself.

What I needed to unravel all of this were the letters and papers Grace had found -- and like Noel had said, they all had probably been lost in the fire.

Noel came out with Caleb half-asleep on his shoulder, a small fabric bag of treats hanging from his bent elbow. "Ready to go, Malcolm?"

"I'm ready." I got to my feet and touched Caleb's back. "Did you have fun tonight, little man?"

Caleb nodded and sleepily patted my cheek. We said good night to Rene and Angelique, walked to the car, and drove back to Fidele.

 

***

 

Caleb was sound asleep by the time we reached Fidele. Noel carried him upstairs to put him to bed, and I took the pieces of our costumes to the schoolroom. Caleb would want to play knights again, I thought, and maybe Noel and I would be his dragons.

We had said little on the drive home. This was not unusual for Noel, but still I had been grateful for it. I was raw from an overabundance of emotion. It was one thing to grieve someone -- it was quite another to have it confirmed that they were always with me.

I said softly, as I hung the dragon masks from coat-hooks by their ribbons, "I'm not going to change who I am just because you're watching me, Zack. But I am glad you're still around. I am."

I felt the faintest of breezes at the back of my neck, and smiled to myself.

There was a tap on the schoolroom door, and I turned to see Noel standing in the doorway. "Caleb's tucked in. He didn't even wake up when I put him into his pajamas."

"Little man had a busy day," I observed.

"So did big man," Noel said and came to me, adding, "You look tired," as he put his arms around my shoulders.

"I feel wrung out," I admitted as I leaned against him. "But the night's not over yet, is it?"

"I don't know," Noel said. "I don't remember Halloween being any more or less haunted than any other night when I was a child. I think you should go to bed and whatever our ghosts decide to do, it can wait until morning to deal with."

"Are you going to sleep?"

"I'm going to try."

We gazed at each other. He had shaved before the party but his five o'clock shadow had returned, dark along his jaw. It was all I could do not to rub my cheek against his, wanting the scrape and bite.

"Come on," he said and steered me out of the school room and down the passage. "Emmanuel likes to get to the cemetery right after breakfast."

"What exactly are we going to do?"

"Exactly? We're going to walk to the cemetery and lay flowers on some graves, and I'm going to try to keep Caleb from falling apart."

"So I'll keep you from falling apart," I said, and he huffed.

"I'm sure I will at some point. Just not in front of Emmanuel." We stopped at my door, his arm still around my shoulders.

"Well," I said, "thanks for walking me home."

Noel smiled but didn't release me. "Thanks for making me come to the party."

"Thanks for coming with me."

I don't know which of us moved first. Perhaps neither -- perhaps it was the same moment, when we were already so close and he was holding me, and it was perfectly natural to close that space between us.

We kissed like time would never end -- my hands in his hair, his arms around me, the dark passage lit only by the chandelier in the vestibule -- and though the kiss was as full of need and desire as kisses between us ever were, there was something new to it, too, something sweet and tender, like saying "I'll wait for you." 

The kiss only ended when we heard footsteps on the stairs -- Mrs. Bell, turning off the lights on her way to bed. Noel gave me a pleading look, and I nodded and slipped into my room, leaving the door ajar.

"Mr. Noel," Mrs. Bell said. "I didn't realize you were home already."

"I just put Caleb to bed," Noel said. 

"Did he have a good time at the party?"

"He did. We all did."

"Oh, I'm so glad. Has Mr. Malcolm gone to bed?"

"He has. By the way, Caleb was given a bag of candy that I've put in the school room."

"Maybe we ought to put it in the kitchen so I can dole it out after his lunchtime."

"That's a good idea."

Footsteps to the school room, and then down the stairs again. I lay on my bed with my hand on my forehead, the need to protect Noel from the many threats against him warring with the need to hold and touch and comfort.

This was a new and strange sensation. My desire for him had been a constant gnaw ever since we met, but this -- this felt like a small and tender thing, driven by something other than lust that I couldn't put a name to yet. I wanted him in my bed but I knew I would have been satisfied with him simply sleeping beside me, where I could reach out and touch him when he grew restless or if he cried out in the night. Curse or no, I wanted to show him he was cherished and needed and safe.

Frustrating. All of this -- something -- with nowhere to go.

Despite this -- despite wanting to crawl into his bed and hold him tight until dawn -- I got ready for bed like every other night and lay my body down. I was weary enough from everything that had happened at the party to not even want to smoke a joint. If any ghosts wanted my attention, they'd have to wake me up to get it.

With that rebellious thought in my head, I turned off the lights and closed my eyes, my cane in its usual place at the side of the bed. 

One moment I was lying awake, thinking about Noel and Caleb and the best way to handle All Saints -- the next, I was not in my bed, not in my room.

I was in a small bed, with sheets of soft linen and a feather pillow under my head. My body ached but felt lighter than it had. My skin was sticky with summer heat, and against my breast slept a child -- hours old, at most, washed of the muck of birth, with a head full of dark hair and his father's sharp cheekbones. His skin was lighter than mine -- a true quadroon, maybe even light enough to pass when it came time for him to make his way in the world.

His father -- handsome, tall, clever; he had won my heart without purchasing my body -- appeared in the doorway of my little room and stared down at the child. He wore his riding cloak and boots, hastily pulled on over breeches and his nightshirt. "Is it a boy?" he asked in old-fashioned French as he came toward me. "Does he live?"

"It is a boy," I said. "Your son." I held him out, proud, pleased -- the little Parisian fille he had married could give him no such gift. My prayers would be answered, I was certain. He would return to me. He would give me back his heart.

He took my child from my arms. He stared down at the sleeping boy's face, his own face a mix of joy and wonder -- or so I thought, as that was all I felt.

And then he turned, my child still in his arms, and walked out of the room.

For a moment I could not move, so stunned was I -- and then I threw back the bed linens and struggled to get myself upright. 

I staggered after him and screamed his name. "Achille!" The sun had set while I labored and slept, but the horizon was alight with fire. They were burning the sugar cane fields, to clear them for the next planting.

I screamed, "Achille!" as he walked down the path to his waiting mount, a big chestnut stallion. "Achille!"

The air was thick with smoke and the scent of burning sugar. My throat -- my eyes -- stung with it, with grief and betrayal.

"Achille! Give me back my baby!"

I tried to run after him but his house man grabbed me and held me back as he disappeared from view. I screamed and screamed, "Achille! Achille! Give me back my baby!" until my voice was hoarse, and father and child were long gone.

 

***

 

I woke, the taste of smoke still in my mouth, anger and grief still in my heart -- and promptly crumpled to the hard wood floor.

I was not in Germany -- always my first thought when I woke from a nightmare. Nor was I a Negro woman from a long-ago century in a little house on the edge of the sugar cane fields. It was 1951 and I was lying on the floor of a passage in the plantation house Fidele.

The dream was already fading as I pulled myself up and used the wall to support myself as I made my way back to my bedroom. I remembered a betrayed woman and burning fields, and the heat of a summer night. I remembered a name.

I grabbed my cane, a candlestick, and a dressing gown, and despite my aching body, despite it being so dark I knew dawn was only a few hours away, I went downstairs to the library and the enormous family Bible. As usual, it was open to the family tree in the front; at the top, as I remembered, was the name Achille Thibodeaux.

The woman in my nightmare was not Charlotte Thibodeaux. I knew that as surely as I knew I was Malcolm Carmichael. I didn't know her name but I knew this -- Achille had taken her child, and this betrayal cut her so deep she was still making the family pay.

As I stood there, trying to make sense of what I had dreamed, I heard a rustling sort of thump, like a book falling off a shelf. I remembered this sound -- it had happened before, the first time I explored the library, and as had happened last time when I went looking for the source of the sound, I found a leather-bound book with the title of _Ledger_ , so old the gold of the embossing had worn away.

I had skimmed through it back in September. It had given me a picture of the early days of Fidele -- land and slaves bought and sold, tons of sugar processed, buildings constructed, even clothing laundered and groceries purchased -- but had told me little of the family situation. That, I now knew, was lost in the fire that had killed Grace and Simon. I had a family tree and a ledger, which gave me nothing but bare facts.

Enough had happened since then, though, that when I picked up the book I was not surprised to find the air around the shelf was cold. Someone wanted me to read this. Someone, I suspected, like the woman I had been in my dream. Her story was in here. I just had to dig it out.

I heard the grandfather clock upstairs chime three times. The witching hour, some would say. And again I was not surprised to hear faint piano music, soft and dreamy and not of this world.


	20. All Saints Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> "I do recall you saying previously that you didn't believe in ghosts."
>>
>>> Breakfast was a tense affair. Even on weekends, Emmanuel was usually gone by the time Caleb was up and dressed, and Caleb was already cranky from staying up too late and eating too many sweets. Having to eat breakfast in the dining room instead of the kitchen, on top of having his grandfather glowering at him from the head of the table, made Caleb turn away from his hot cereal with a mulish set to his mouth.

"You need to eat, peanut," Noel said and sliced open a biscuit to spread with butter and honey. "How about just this?"

Caleb turned away from the biscuit, too.

I gasped in exaggerated shock. "Caleb! You're saying _no_ to Mrs. Bell's biscuits?"

He glowered at me, looking very much like Emmanuel. It was amazing, really, how the strong Thibodeaux features were passed down from father to son -- aside from the dark shade of brown to his hair, it seemed Grace had hardly left her imprint on him at all.

"Eat your breakfast, boy," Emmanuel growled. Noel gave him a look through narrowed eyes, and put the biscuit on Caleb's bread plate.

"You're not going to eat candy all day," he said. "We're all going to the cemetery this morning whether you've eaten breakfast or not, so just eat something healthy. You'll be happier."

Eyebrows still lowered, Caleb picked up the biscuit and took a tiny bite out of it, which he chewed as slowly as he could. Noel sighed but didn't press it.

When our three plates were empty -- and Caleb had eaten two bites of his biscuit and drunk a few sips of milk -- Willie brought out an armful of fresh bouquets, and we all walked through the garden to the path that led to the cemetery. Emmanuel went first, his expression grim and businesslike. Noel went second, a few bouquets tucked in the crook of his arm, his head down. Caleb and I brought up the rear, my slow pace matching his small stride.

Halfway to the cemetery, Caleb took my hand and looked up at me. "It's All Saints Day," I said. "It's the day we honor the people we love who have died."

He stopped walking, the thunderous look he'd been wearing all morning changing to something wary. I stopped too, still holding his hand. "Do you remember Uncle Noel talking to you about this before?" I said gently. "We're going to leave flowers for your mama and daddy, and for your grandma Fabienne, too."

He gave a cautious nod and we resumed walking. His hand clung to mine, and I wondered if he remembered taking this walk the previous March.

We came out of the trees to the family cemetery. The clearing looked serene and welcoming. The day was cool and clear, a sweet sort of autumn that I suspected was particular to the Deep South.

At the head of the path, both Emmanuel and Noel paused, then gave each other a quick glance and went to the different graves without a word.

I hesitated too, uncertain if I should intrude on Noel mourning his brother -- but then I felt how Caleb's hand trembled in mine, and said, "I'll walk with you, little man," and took him to his parents' graves.

Noel was still holding the bouquets, and he turned abruptly when he heard Caleb and I approach. "Hey, peanut," he said and hastily wiped his face with the heel of his hand. "Want to lay the flowers?"

Caleb nodded and let go of my hand, and carefully took the first bouquet that Noel handed to him. He hesitated and looked up at Noel.

"Whoever you want to give flowers first," Noel said gently. "Mommy or Daddy."

Caleb hesitated, then lay the flowers on his mother's side of the grave. Noel gave him the other bouquet and Caleb lay it on his father's. His shoulders hitched and he covered his face with his hands.

"Oh, peanut," Noel whispered and knelt beside him on the grass. "It's okay, Caleb. It's okay. I know you miss them. It's okay." He held Caleb tight, and Caleb wrapped his arms around Noel's neck.

It seemed like offering comfort would only be intruding, so I moved away and followed the path to look at the other graves. Closest to Simon and Grace's grave, of course, was Fabienne's, so I went past it, not wanting to disturb Emmanuel, and went instead to the ornate tomb at the furthest reach of the cemetery.

It belonged, of course, to Charlotte and Achille Thibodeaux. I knew their names and dates, but they seemed to be even more real and tragic to me now. Poor mad Charlotte, her story hushed up so she could be buried in sacred ground. I even felt for Achille, who apparently had been so traumatized by the death of his wife that he never married again, in an age when a second or third wife was more common than merely one.

Their names were cast into brass plates that had been attached to the wall of the tomb, the lettering faint from time and age. What I did not expect to find was a third name carved straight into the stone between them, simple and small: Michel Thibodeaux, August 18, 1740.

One date. A familiar one, matching the birth date of Achille's son, Maxim.

The story of Charlotte made more sense than it had before -- twins were not new to the Thibodeaux family with Noel and Simon, but while this time their mother had survived, one of the twins had not. Quite likely, it was part of what had driven Charlotte mad.

"I'm sorry, little fella," I murmured as I lightly touched the stone between Michel's name. I touched Charlotte's name plate, too. "And I'm sorry about you. I wish I knew how to help you be at peace." I glanced around, expecting to see a gray-faced figure standing beside me, but the cemetery’s occupants at rest.

Noel was talking gently to Caleb, so I began the walk back to them, but paused at Fabienne's grave where Emmanuel still stood. He had laid his bouquet on the flat, low tomb, but didn't seem to find any comfort in the gesture as he stood there, his hands shoved in his trouser pockets.

Emmanuel finally noticed me, cleared his throat, and said gruffly, "I expect you find this superstitious and absurd."

"I find it touching," I said.

He cleared his throat in response.

I said, "You must miss her very much."

"She was a silly little chit of a thing," he said. "I should have known she couldn't handle childbirth."

I kept my mouth closed and looked at the square headstone. Fabienne Leclerc Thibodeaux, it read, 1898-1918. Another familiar name and date from the family Bible.

To fill the silence, I said, "Noel is named for being a Christmas baby, of course. Is Simon named after someone?"

"My best friend when I was a boy," Emmanuel said. "He died at Amiens."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"It was war," he said. "We sacrificed ourselves for a greater good, something you of all people should understand."

"Right," I said, not wanting to get into it.

"That boy is going to turn my grandson into a fairy just like him," Emmanuel said and turned toward Grace and Simon's tomb.

Before he could take another step, I said, "Mr. Thibodeaux, leave them alone. They've lost the people they love most. It hasn't even been a year yet. They're allowed to grieve."

He narrowed his eyes at me.

"Grief is normal," I said. "It's hard as hell, sure, but it's part of living. Let yourself do it. It might make you feel better."

"I'm fine," he growled.

"Obviously."

We glared at each other. There were a lot of things I wanted to say -- to tell him off for being a terrible father and taking out his grief on Noel, just to begin with -- but I was not entirely without sympathy, either. I said, "You've lost your son. You're allowed to mourn him, too."

"Fuck you, Carmichael," Emmanuel said, turning on his heel. I was glad to see that instead of disturbing Caleb and Noel, like I feared he would, he swept up the path back to the house like he couldn't be bothered with any of us.

I exhaled and went back to Noel and Caleb, who were now sitting on the flat top of Simon's grave, Caleb on Noel's knee. Caleb had wept himself out, and his head rested on Noel's chest as Noel stroked his cheek and his hair.

"Malcolm," Noel said when he saw me.

"How are we doing?" I said and searched for a pocket-handkerchief to wipe Caleb's tear-streaked face. I came up with a blunt pencil, my pocket-sketchbook, and my lighter. Noel gave me a slight smile and used his own handkerchief to clean Caleb up instead.

"We'll be all right," he said as Caleb blew his nose. "Ready to go back to the house?" Caleb held tighter to Noel, and Noel rubbed his back. "Maybe in a few minutes."

I nodded and moved down the tomb so I could see the headstones: Simon Christopher Thibodeaux, December 25, 1918, through March 10, 1951; and Grace Upshaw Thibodeaux, November 6, 1918, through March 10, 1951. They had both been so young, just like so many of the other graves here -- so many of the Thibodeaux brides had been just in their twenties, and the men --

I frowned, looking out at the tombs. If I understood the size and shapes, even as fashions changed, every one of them held only two people save for Charlotte, Achille, and their baby. Thibodeaux wives died young, I knew, but I hadn't comprended before that not one of the Thibodeaux husbands married again in their long, and apparently lonely, lives.

The curse. No matter how real it was or wasn't, the Thibodeaux men had believed it, and hadn't endangered another woman by publicly declaring their love. Even Emmanuel, for all his gruffness, hadn't sought out another wife.

He must have believed it, too.

I stowed this thought away to bring it up later with Noel, and lowered myself to the grave, too. I took out my sketchbook and pencil, and drew a quick sketch of the cemetery -- the iron fence, the sugar cane fields beyond, the flat Creole-style tombs -- until Caleb got up from Noel's knee and joined me, curious to see what I was drawing.

"It's so pretty here," I said. "I want to remember it when I'm far away."

He looked up at me, lips trembling again, and I said, "But that won't happen for a long time, little man. Not until you don't need me anymore."

Noel looked away at that. "We should go back."

"All right." I put my sketchbook away and when I got to my feet, Caleb took both our hands, and the three of us walked back to the house.

***

Mrs. Bell was in the vestibule when we returned from the cemetery, disguising her worry with dusting picture frames. "How are you, sugar?" she said as she ran her hand through Caleb's hair, and he put his arms around her waist and held her tight.

"A little overwhelmed," Noel said. “I think a mid-morning nap would do him well.”

Caleb scowled but yawned, and Mrs. Bell said, "How about you and I finish your breakfast first? I could fry up the leftover grits with some bacon." He accepted that and held up his arms, so she picked him up and took him to the kitchen.

I asked Noel, "Are you going into the city today?"

"Not today," Noel said. "Everything's closed but the cemeteries."

"Want to come on an adventure with me?"

He arched an eyebrow at me, but said, "Sure, all right." I got the spare keys to the pickup truck and we left the house. The Packard was gone from the carriage house -- Emmanuel must have sought his comfort about the day elsewhere. I hoped he was seeking comfort somewhere, anyway.

"Where are we going?" Noel said as I drove to the bayou road.

"This is going to sound strange," I said, "but I want to visit the slave cemetery."

"That's not strange." He looked out the window, and then said, "The school wants to make it into an historical landmark."

"Have you told Emmanuel?"

"Yes. He snorted and said it's their land to do with as they please." He tapped his fingers on his knee. "What are you hoping to see?"

"I don't know," I said. "I had a dream last night that I can't shake, and I feel like the cemetery will tell me something." He was still looking at me, so I added, "To explain it."

"If you want someone to psychoanalyze you, I'm sure Caleb's therapist can make some recommendations."

"I don't mean like that. It was too -- dreams only make sense when you're dreaming. This dream felt like a memory."

Noel studied me. "And you think the slave cemetery will have some answers."

"I hope so." We were deep in the woods now, the oaks and cypresses thick enough to make the mid-morning light muted and soft. I said, "Why is the slave cemetery so far away from the family one? Is that typical?"

"The slave cabins were near it," Noel said. "I assume the cemetery was built where the families could reach them easily. Why? Do you think it was something else?"

"I don't know," I said again. "Maybe. Or there were more reasons -- would the families have made the bottle-tree, for instance? Would they want to trap the spirits of their loved ones, or protect them?"

Noel frowned as he thought that over. "Malcolm? Did you see something in the bottles?"

"No," I said. "They were just bottles, as far as I could tell."

Noel frowned more and watched the road go by.

I found the faint, carved arrow that pointed to the cemetery road, and crawled the pickup truck down the increasingly narrow track until we reached the gateway stones. I parked the truck and turned off the engine.

We sat in silence. The meadow was quiet except for the soft clink from the bottle-tree.

I got out of the truck and through the gateway stones. "They used to grow sugar cane down here."

"Right up to the bayou," Noel said. He swung down from the truck, too. "They used every inch of land they could. We've still got old maps of the plantation somewhere."

I looked down the track at the way we had come. The trees were bigger now, of course, and the woods had gone wild, but I had seen this very road in my dream. I had seen Achille ride down this, taking my child away.

I said to Noel, "I dreamed I was a Negro woman with a little house right here. I had given birth to Achille's son, and when Achille came to see him he took the child with him."

Noel's face was serious. "Why would you dream something like that?"

"I don't _know_." I didn't know enough. I felt like I didn't know anything.

"Achille only had one son."

"Two," I said. "Maxim, your great-great-et cetera grandfather -- and his twin, Michel, who died at birth. His name is on the tomb with Charlotte and Achille."

"Fine," Noel said, "two sons, one of whom lived to adulthood. I know some of my other ancestors had quadroon or octaroon mistresses. Wealthy Creole young men often did. The children were acknowledged and their fathers paid for their upbringing, but they weren't taken away from their mothers."

"And they died out, too. They were those branches you told me about."

"Yes." He came to me and put a hand on my arm. "Malcolm, there's no house. There's never been a house out here."

I wanted to shake off his arm -- I was irritated in a way that felt hopeless to me, like knowing a truth you can neither explain nor prove. I said, "Something terrible happened here. It left its sorrow behind."

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Yes!" I snapped. "Enough to have that dream and I just want it to make sense!"

Noel held out his hand. "Give me the keys." Without argument, I put them in his hand. He put them in his pocket. His tone was gentle as he said, "You know this road. You've been here before. Of course it showed up in your dream. What it all means, I couldn't say, but your emotions have been high since last night and I think that affected your dreams."

"Rene once said old families have closets full of skeletons."

"We do," Noel said. "Plantation owners did terrible things. It’a a fact I’ve had to deal with all of my life." I don't know if it was the look on my face or the way my body trembled, but something made Noel put his arms around me and pull me to him. He pressed his lips to my hair. "Don't let it consume you, Malcolm. Don't become obsessed. I need you to be strong for Caleb. I need you to -- to be my friend."

"I'm your friend," I said, "I'll always be your friend," and my mouth found his.

Noel pulled away first. He held me at arm's length, the shoulders of my shirt bunched in his hands, his eyes wide and his brows furrowed and the color high in his cheeks.

I said, "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't--"

Noel pushed me against the truck and when he kissed me, I didn't stop him.

Between kisses Noel whispered fiercely, "Don’t leave us. I need you. Don't leave."

"I won't." I pulled him tighter against me. "Not until you tell me to go."

"I won't," he said, "I won't," and we kissed again -- made even more desperate, I suspect, by the stolen kisses we'd had the night before. Everything that was fierce and possessive within me rose up and made itself known in my hands and mouth, and he kissed me back like it was all he wanted, all he had ever wanted, all he could ever want.

Again we pulled back from each other, but not far. Breathing hard, our hands shaking, we both smiled when our eyes met. Noel opened the door to the truck's cab and we both climbed inside.

I couldn't kiss him enough -- not his soft mouth, not his glorious body as he pulled off his button-down shirt -- and I couldn't stop smiling, either, as he knelt above me and I touched him. There were small scars of various age scattered over his skin, and I kissed them, as tenderly as I kissed the heartbeat I felt pounding in his chest and the trembling of his stomach.

We had more room to move in the truck than we'd had in the Jaguar, and so we lay down together easily, his body on top of mine, kissing and kissing until he whispered, "Does this hurt?"

"This doesn't hurt." Or at least, the usual ache receded in the face of _This is Noel kissing me, Noel touching me._ "Nothing hurts."

"Good," he whispered, "good," and unzipped my trousers. My hips arched up as he pushed down my trousers, and then he paused. He touched my bad hip, mapping out the scars with his fingertips.

I watched him, my chest still rapidly rising and falling, and I said, "We've both been through the shit. You know that."

"Yeah," he said, "I know." Not one for a lot of words when they weren't needed, he stooped again and kissed me, and wrapped his hand around my cock. I cried out, my lips open against his mouth, and he stroked me and teased me with kisses until I was rocking under him. I reached for him, desperate for his shaft in my fingers, and he arched up his hips with a soft, laughing, "Uh-uh."

"Bastard," I said and pulled our hips together, hard enough to make the air escape him with an, "Oof!" Ah, there it was -- a hard cock for me to rub with my palm as he shuddered against my chest.

"Malcolm," he gasped, "Malcolm," and knelt up enough to get his trousers low enough to be out of the way, so he could push his cock into the groove of my thigh. We found the right angle where he could push and I could pull, kissing, hard and soft and stealing each other's breath.

The cab of the truck was already warm from the afternoon sun, and only grew hotter as we jostled and gasped. Noel took his mouth away from mine, smiling faintly when I whined and tried to tug him back, and reached over my head so he could roll down the window and let in some air.

There was something about it all -- the gesture, the look on his face, the welcome weight of his body -- that made me pull him down and whisper against his mouth, "There's nobody like you, Noel Thibodeaux. Nobody."

Noel made a shivery sort of laugh, like it was startled out of him, and looked at me with eyes wide and full. He touched my cheek and kissed me, and made soft, throaty sounds as he pushed against me, his path made slick by sweat and spit and the liquid that beaded from both our cocks.

I could see the sweat dripping down Noel's face, the fine texture of his skin and every one of his thick, dark lashes. I could kiss underneath his jaw with my eyes open and see the way it made him squirm.

It was like being a kid again, frantically rutting against each other like this. Unlike when I was a kid, though, I knew exactly what I wanted and how to get it. I wrapped a hand around his cock and he pushed into my fist with a surprised grunt, and pressed one hand against the door for leverage. He gasped my name in a shuddering voice, his breath hot against my lips, and his soft sounds of release were all I could hear except for the watery sounds of the bayou.

***

I sacrificed my undershirt to clean up the mess from our stomachs and tossed it, balled-up, into the little space behind the seat. Noel lay on top of me -- already tensing, like any moment of happiness made him look over his shoulder, and I wrapped myself around him. "Hey. Relax for a few minutes."

He sighed but relaxed in my arms. I combed my fingers through his hair and drifted.

I don't know how much time passed before Noel said, his lips against my throat, "You know, I used to have a house of my own, right in the Quarter. Tiny little place. A hundred and fifty years old, one bedroom, one step above a shotgun shack. Everything was always breaking. But it was mine and I loved it. I could close the shutters and tune out everything, all the noise from the neighborhood, all the lights from the street, and just enjoy the silence. I liked my silence."

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I just went on playing with his hair. It was soft at the back of his neck, and his skin was dewy.

After a moment or two of him stroking my chest, he said, "We should get back," and pushed himself up. I pulled over my legs and righted myself as he did the same, and he got behind the steering wheel. He started the engine and turned the truck so it faced the road back to Fidele, his arm over the back of the seat.

I said, "You were going to say something last night, before Rene interrupted."

Noel didn't answer for a moment, concentrating on the road. "It's not important now."

"Tell me anyway."

He cleared his throat and shifted gears.

All right. He could keep his secrets. But the little story he had told me felt like something he had offered in exchange for something I had yet to give, and I wanted to give him -- something.

We were already back at Fidele when I realized this, pulling into the carriage house. Noel turned off the engine. We both sat there for a minute or two, looking out the doors at the big house.

I said, "I never cared much for silence. Big family, you know. Slamming doors, people calling back and forth. Music. Silence makes me feel like something's missing. But I like being quiet with you."

He smiled to himself, fidgeting with the keys.

I said, "So you need me, huh?"

"Shut up," he said, the smile still lurking on his lips, and reached over to give my head a gentle shove. I laughed, too happy not to.


	21. A Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> Silence makes me feel like something's missing. But I like being quiet with you.

Noel and I spent the rest of the afternoon amusing -- or distracting -- Caleb; playing outside, reading together, drawing pictures. Since he had napped before lunch, he didn't need another in the afternoon. Instead, we spent an hour listening to classical music on the radio in the sitting room while I read a children's version of Arthurian tales out loud.

I thought Noel would slip away at this point, but instead he sat on the other side of Caleb on the sofa and stroked his hair when Caleb leaned against him, smiling to himself when I did voices for the characters.

At supper, Emmanuel scowled more than usual, and he flicked his gaze between Noel and me repeatedly all through the meal. We both had changed clothes and washed up as soon as we got back to the house, but I suppose there was something different about us enough for someone looking for it to notice. Did we look at each other more affectionately, speak with more gentleness, let our hands linger when we touched? Perhaps we did. But to me, we acted as we always did, friendly to each other but more concerned with Caleb.

After supper was eaten and Caleb was put to bed, Noel and I met in the library with our papers and books. Noel had reports to analyze and I had vocabulary sheets to make, to keep up with Caleb's growing reading ability in both French and English.

We worked in silence for a while except for the usual crackle of the fire in the fireplace and the evening rain tapping on the window. I put down my pencil when I finished the drawing of a manticore -- today's vocabulary theme was animals, and I'd added some creatures from our Arthur stories for a little fun -- and rubbed my eyes, feeling the weight of the day.

Noel looked up, the lamplight glinting off his reading glasses. They made him look scholarly, like he was about to expound on the theme of _Cogito ergo sum_ or quote Omar Khayyám. "Long day," he remarked.

"Yeah." I began to put my pencils in order by color. "Noel. There's something I've been thinking about today."

Noel looked alarmed. "Malcolm, not here--"

"No, not about that. Something else. Have you ever noticed how none of your grandfathers remarried after their wives died?"

Noel exhaled slowly, relaxing. "I have. So did Grace."

"Is that why she thought the family is cursed?"

"It's how we _know_ the family is cursed," Noel said. "It's a lesson each generation has had to learn for themselves."

"One that Simon thought he had escaped."

"I thought he had, too." He picked up his mechanical pencil again and rolled it between his fingers. "I understand it, though. If I ever loved someone enough to want to spend my life with them, I wouldn't try to replace them after they died."

"And that's a Thibodeaux trait, isn't it," I said. "Even your father. For all that he dismisses her, he loved your mother so much he never remarried."

An unreadable expression crossed Noel’s face -- something like regret, I thought, and something like sorrow. "I don't know," he said. "It might be love. It might be shame."

"Let's say it was love," I said. "Maybe a misguided love, given how he took out his grief on you, but love, nonetheless. What would the ghost hope to accomplish with cursing the family that way?"

"Aside from making us suffer?"

"Curses usually have a lesson to teach in stories," I said. "If we figure out the reason why the curse was laid to begin with, maybe we can find a way to defeat it." Noel started a retort, and I said, "There's still Caleb's future to protect."

That brought Noel up short. "I didn't think of that. I can hardly imagine him as a grown man."

"He will be, before you know it."

The library door slammed open and Emmanuel stood in the doorway. We both looked up at him, startled, and the triumphant look on his face fled, as if he had expected to find us fucking on the study table and was disappointed to find us just talking.

Noel said coolly, "Did you need something, Father?"

"No," he snapped and stalked off.

Noel waited until Emmanuel's footsteps faded, and then exhaled. "I think," he said, "we'd better not close any doors behind us for a while."

"Pity," I said. "Closing doors is one of my favorite things."

He huffed and started to gather to his papers. "I'm going to bed. Good night, Malcolm."

"Good night, Noel," I said, and put my things away as well.

Little sleep from the night before, an emotional morning, sex -- perhaps it's no wonder that I dropped off quickly, even without a joint to help. My bed felt softer than usual, the duvet cozier, and none of my dreams involved bullets, Nazis, or stolen children.

I woke to a creak from the door. I tensed at once, expecting the temperature to drop and unseen fingers to scratch my chest. Instead, Noel let himself in and shut the door behind him. Silently, he crawled into my bed and wrapped himself around me through the bedding. I wrapped myself around him, too, and kissed the top of his head as he lay it on my chest. 

We fell asleep huddled together, keeping each other warm.

In the morning he was gone, but I didn't mind. He'd be back.

 

***

 

But that would not be for a few days. Right after All Saints, Noel left for three days in Atlanta; he came home late for only one night before leaving again early the next morning, this time for four days in Houston.

Caleb was none too pleased about an entire week without Noel. Nor was I, but I didn’t have the excuse of being five years old to mope on the threshold of Noel’s room or only nibble at my supper.

Instead, I drew a “Days until Uncle Noel Is Home” countdown on the schoolroom blackboard in the most cheerful colors of chalk in my possession. I talked to Caleb at supper and tried to talk to Emmanuel. I read to Caleb at bedtime, and walked with him to the Christies’ house on Saturday so he could play with Samuel.

On Monday, I took him to and from his therapy appointment and finally met Dr. Dufresne, who was plump and motherly with a sweet Georgia accent and salt-and-pepper hair, and a no-nonsense demeanor that both reassured me that she took Caleb's troubles seriously and made me feel I should be on my best behavior myself.

"So, you're the tutor," she said as we watched Caleb play with toy soldiers in the next room. Her office was soothing, blond woods and overstuffed chairs, and she offered me a chair without glancing at the cane.

"I am," I said, "and you're the child psychologist."

"We've heard a lot about each other, I'm sure." She sat behind her desk, with her hands folded on the cream-colored blotter. "For example, Mr. Thibodeaux has mentioned you are teaching Caleb French and art, as well as the three Rs."

"Yes, that's right. I taught French before the war and art afterward."

"And I get the sense from what he's said that the war hasn't quite left you yet, either."

"I don't think it'll leave any of us who served on the front lines, ma'am."

"No, I suppose not." Her eyes were dark grey, shrewd but kind. "No marriage before the war? Or after?"

"No, ma'am," I said simply.

There was a slight pause, as if she were making a decision, and then she said, "Caleb seems to think Fidele is haunted."

I knew he did, of course, but it was still a surprise to hear someone else say it. I swallowed and nodded. "Yes."

"He has drawn pictures of a little girl who comes out of the walls," Dr. Dufresne said. "His drawing has improved so much since I started seeing him."

"Yes," I murmured, my mind elsewhere than his drawing abilities. "A little colored girl? With braids?"

"Yes," she said. "He's told her about her, too?"

"He drew her for me once, but I didn't understand the context. Mrs. Bell said it looked like her when she was a little girl, but he couldn't have seen any pictures of her."

Dr. Dufresne gazed at me thoughtfully. "I am not Noel Thibodeaux's therapist, nor am I yours," she said. "But what the adults in his life experience also effects Caleb--"

"I don't tell him ghost stories," I said. "But I've been in the room with him when something not natural has been there too. I know something is watching him, something malignant." I hesitated and she continued gazing at me calmly. "I also know," I said slowly, "that his father is watching over him, too."

"His father, who died last March," she said.

"I know how it sounds," I said with a sigh. "I know how all of it sounds. But if I'm right, I think Caleb knows his father is with him."

Again she gazed at me. "You were wounded overseas, during the war?"

"Yes."

"It must have been a terrible experience for you."

I gripped the cane a little tighter. "I wouldn't care to repeat it. But I try not to let it color how I treat Caleb."

"If you don't tell him ghost stories, what stories do you tell him?"

"The usual boys' fare," I said. "Fairy tales, adventure stories. He likes stories about knights, now. I think he wants to be a knight when he grows up."

"There are worse things to aspire to," she said and rose from her desk. "It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Carmichael, and put a face to the name."

"It was lovely to meet you too," I said, and when Caleb and I left the office I wondered about her questions, and what she would tell Noel about me the next time they spoke.

Since we would be in the city already, I had told Mrs. Bell not to expect us home for lunch. I took Caleb instead to one of the little cafes I liked in the French Quarter. We ate shrimp po' boys and beignets for dessert, and then we went to the city park so he could run in the open fields and climb the ancient trees.

Thunderheads had lurked over the city all morning, and they finally broke in the afternoon. We drove home in a shower. Caleb rolled down the window enough to stick out his fingers and feel the rain fall, and even though it soaked the sleeve of his jacket I didn't tell him to pull in his hand. I understood the love of rain.

 

***

 

Noel's train was due back Wednesday afternoon. Normally Willie would fetch him from the train station, but Wednesday morning Willie took me aside.

"Mr. Emmanuel says he needs me this afternoon," he said, twisting his cap in his hands. "I reminded him Mr. Noel is due home today, but he -- he says he needs me instead."

What Emmanuel had done to earn Willie's loyalty, I couldn't even guess. I refrained from remarking on it, though and said, "I'll take the truck and meet Noel's train. I don't mind."

"Thank you," he said with obvious relief. "I'd hate for Mr. Noel to wait at the station for hours and not be able to reach us."

I understood his worry. The phones continued to be unreliable, even though Noel had arranged for the phone company to check our lines twice. Both times the linemen said there was nothing wrong with our connection. Still, if Noel tried to call, it was likely he wouldn't get through, and of course we had no way to tell him someone would be at the station later.

After lunch, I handed Caleb over to Mrs. Bell. "You don't mind watching him?" I asked her, and she laughed.

"I don't mind. I think sometimes the little lamb gets tired of _me_."

Caleb took her hand and swung it, denying any weariness of her company. I left them and got the keys to the truck, and headed into the city to meet Noel's train.

There was nothing altruistic about this gesture. I missed Noel, I ached for him. I wanted to see him again as soon as possible, and I wanted a few minutes alone with him even if it only was the amount of time it took to drive back to Fidele.

I waited on the platform with my coat collar turned up against the weather. There were benches on the platform, soI sat, fidgeted with my cane, and checked my wristwatch every five minutes. I had tried not to leave too early, knowing that arriving early meant waiting longer, but it still seemed like hours before the train pulled into the station and weary travelers trickled off.

This included Noel, valise in hand and his eyes scanning the platform. He blinked when he saw me, and then slowly smiled.

I went to meet him. "Hi."

"Hi." His hand started to rise as if he intended to touch my face, but he only offered his arm, instead. We turned together to leave the platform and make our way through the station. "Where's Willie? Is he all right?"

"He's fine. Emmanuel decided he needed him more than you did today, so here I am instead."

"Here you are," he said. "Thank you."

We climbed into the truck and Noel put his valise at his feet. I started started the engine. "Do you want to stop anywhere -- maybe get some coffee?"

"I'd like to get home."

"All right," I said, pulled out of the parking lot, and got onto the road that would take us out of the city.

It was hard not to stare at Noel instead of watching the road. I felt hungry for every little bit of him -- the slope of his nose, the thick waves of his hair framing his face, even the weariness around his eyes.

I forced myself to concentrate on driving. It would never do to crash because I was distracted by his nearness.

"How is Caleb?" Noel said.

"Happy enough, most of the time, but he misses you." He sighed, and I said, "I finally met Dr. Dufresne, by the way."

"What did you think of her?"

I said honestly, "I think she saw right through me."

He laughed in his short, dry way. "I feel that way, too." A few silent miles went by. "And you? How are you?"

"I'm mostly happy too," I answered lightly. Noel huffed, looking out the window, and I said, "I've missed you, too."

"Oh," Noel said quietly. "Thanks." He inhaled. "Has anything happened with the ghost lately?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," I said, and smiled to myself at how discussing the family haunting could feel so normal. "I've been scratched a few more times, but I haven't seen or heard anything new."

"She seems curious about you," Noel mused. "She doesn't seem to understand how you fit into the household."

"Maybe that's good," I said, and Noel studied me with serious eyes. "I mean, if she doesn't know who I am, she wouldn't want to hurt me."

"I suppose."

We were finally on the outskirts of the city, heading into the bayou. I said, "So you don't have to worry about me so much."

"Oh," he murmured, "I'll worry."

I glanced at him, then back at the road. It was raining hard, even with the windshield wipers going, and it was dark from the thick trees that met overhead.

Noel said, "Will you pull over for a few minutes?"

"Sure." I brought the truck to a stop at the side of the road. We sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the rain tapping on the truck. "Are you sure you don't want to go back for some coffee?"

"I'm sure." Noel's face could be stern sometimes, but at the moment it was soft, even a little sad. He rolled down the window enough to push his fingers through the top of the window and the window frame, and let the rain fall on his fingers. He said softly, "I thought a lot about us while I was away. I made a lot of decisions -- which changed every day," he added in a self-deprecating tone.

"Tell me what you decided."

"Well," Noel said, "at first I decided that Caleb comes first, and you and I being together would only endanger his safety and happiness. And then I decided I deserve happiness too, and you make me happy, so I should be with you. And then I decided I was being selfish and can't risk either of you."

I protested, "But it's not just your--"

"Let me finish, please." I shut my mouth, and he finally pulled in his fingers and wiped the water off with a handkerchief. "And then I saw you on the platform, and realized that every reason I find to keep us apart pales compared to how much I want you."

My throat felt tight.

He whispered, "So ... So what do you think?"

I said, "I think I want you too."

Noel smiled, tentative. "It's not going to be easy."

"It never is for men like us."

"And Caleb comes first."

"Of course." There was no question to me about that.

"It's not going to change much, you know. As long as we have to stay at Fidele, we'll have to be cautious and not raise Emmanuel's suspicions."

"He's already suspicious."

"Not raise them more, then." Slowly, he moved closer to my side, and then lay his head on my shoulder and pulled my arm around his neck. "You're right. It's never easy. I've never wanted it to be easy because I never wanted it to last."

"I'm not going anywhere," I said and dropped a kiss on his hair.

He exhaled slowly. "One of these days, Malcolm, there'll be something that drives you away."

"Have a little faith in me," I said.

"I do," Noel murmured, weaving our fingers together. "Seems strange to have faith in an agnostic, but I do." He kissed my palm.

With anyone else -- sitting there by the side of the road as the rain came down -- I would have tried to persuade him to spoon a little, if not more; but here with Noel, we just held each other, quiet, giving each other soft kisses at most but otherwise just enjoying a few minutes together.

We didn't stay there for long. We didn't want to keep Caleb waiting.

 

***

 

Caleb was playing in the vestibule with Tumnus when we came back to Fidele. He dropped his toys and ran to meet us, and Noel swung him up in his arms. "Hi, peanut! Did you miss me? I sure missed you. Let's put my valise away and then you can show me what you've been up to." They started up the stairs to Noel's room.

I watched them for a few minutes, that same -- _something_ \-- that had filled me before now warm and overwhelming in my chest. To say they were important to me oversimplified it. They were the air I breathed, the water I drank, and I thought I would fight dragons for them if called upon to do so.

That was unlikely, even in the wilds of Louisiana. But I would stay in a haunted house for them, which called for more bravery and devotion than a mere fire-breathing, claw-bearing, treasure-hoarding lizard would ever require.

From the stairs, Noel called, "Come on, Malcolm!" and Caleb flapped his hand to me, bidding me to join them. I grinned and did.


	22. A Little Night Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> "Every reason I find to keep us apart pales compared to how much I want you."

I'd never really been courted before. When I was a boy, sometimes a girl would invite me to dinner with her family in the hope I'd ask her to a social or the pictures, but I've never had a boy or man show his interest by baking me cookies or writing me poetry or sitting in my parlor to drink a cup of tea with my parents. Of course, courtship is about marriage, and marriage was never my priority; after Daniel, even living with someone felt like more than I could hope for.

It was different with Noel. Of course it was; everything about Noel was different than the men who had come before -- this includes Oliver, the closest I had come to loving someone in over a decade.

One might think it was easier to be together when we already lived in the same house; but there was Emmanuel and his suspicions, there was Noel's work that took him away for three or four days every week through November as his clients scrambled to prepare projects before year's end; and there was looking after Caleb, which took up most of my time and energy daily.

Noel and I took our moments when we found them. We worked together in the library on the nights Noel was home, or Noel read out out to me, his accent and rich voice making every word sound like a song. We played with Caleb and took him with us into the city to see a picture or eat at a cafe. Sometimes we even risked stealing kisses in the garden or in the passages after dark. When our eyes met across the dinner table or over Caleb's head, it was like saying, _I'm with you. I'm here, too._

At the end of the month, Noel was due home after five days in the midwest. He wouldn't be traveling any more for the rest of the year, much to Caleb's delight as well as mine, and it was with great ceremony that I had written ZERO under "Days Until Uncle Noel Is Home" on our countdown chalkboard that morning. His train wasn't due until well after midnight, so we put Caleb to bed and told him Noel would be there when he woke up in the morning.

I had the duty of meeting Noel's train. I usually did now, as it freed up Willie to look after Emmanuel and I could bring Caleb with me, if it was early enough in the day, and we would eat or shop in the city before taking Noel home. 

But since this train would be so late I went by myself, and I was grateful for the increasingly rare chance to be alone with Noel. It was strange to want and be wanted, and yet do so little about it; and Noel was right, it wasn't easy. 

To my surprise, and it would probably surprise many of the men who'd known me in the past, I didn't mind waiting. For the first time in my life, I could be patient.

Still, if the opportunity to touch a little presented itself, I wanted to take it. I hoped Noel wasn't so tired from traveling that he would agree.

It wasn't a long wait for his train to arrive, and as usual there was a small trickle of travelers along with the people who had come to meet them up and down the platform. Noel was easy to see -- the eye is drawn to the familiar, to the treasured. He smiled faintly at the sight of me, and I came to him with a soft, "Hi. Welcome back."

"Hi," he replied, just as soft. "It's good to be back." I took his elbow -- normally I hated to lean on anyone, but with Noel I would take any excuse I could find to touch him -- and we left the station.

"Do you want to go straight home or could we stop a little?" I said as we drove out of the city. 

"We could stop a little," Noel said and give me a look from the corner of his eye that made me smile in anticipation. 

I waited until we were out in the bayou, and pulled over to a little glade where the only light came from fireflies dancing in the thick branches overhead. I turned off the engine and faced Noel, my back to the door, and began, "Noel--"

He launched himself across the seat and kissed me fiercely, his hands in my hair and his knees on either side of my hips. I put my arms around his waist and pulled him tight against me, overcome with need for his skin, his mouth, his body. From the way his hands raked through my hair and the way his mouth devoured mine, he was just as overcome.

"I missed you," he muttered and gave a sucking kiss to my jaw. "There was this man in Columbus -- he threw himself at me -- I didn't want him at all, I just wanted you --"

"Are you telling me that to make me jealous?" I was pulling at his shirt, tugging down his trousers, too hungry for Noel's body to think about this mysterious man in Ohio.

"No. Just--" He stopped kissing me and held my face in both hands. His gaze bored into mine. "I knew I'd be coming home to you."

I smiled and whispered, "I'm glad you came home to me," as I arched up to kiss him. It didn't hit me until a moment later, what he was saying -- and the realization just made me kiss him harder, pull him to me tighter. My kisses were greedy and possessive, like a miser running his fingers through his treasure -- and Noel returned each one freely, generously, his body mine to touch and appreciate and cherish.

When he took me in his mouth I grasped the top of the open window. My head tipped back. I was so addled with lust that as he sucked me off I thought the stars were swaying in the sky; I came, laughing, when I realized it was just the fireflies.

Noel knelt up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What is it?"

"Fireflies," I said and pulled him to me by the hips. "I saw fireflies."

"Oh, is that all," Noel answered, and then pushed his hands into my hair and didn't say anything beyond my name for a while.

We sprawled on the long front seat after, the windows open to let in the scents and sounds of the night around us. His shirt was open and I ran my fingers absently over his chest as I leaned against his side. I wrote our names with my fingertips and drew hearts around them, rubbed them away and replaced them with stars and circles.

Noel murmured, "During the war, I was one of the few men in my unit without a wife or a sweetheart. I used to wonder what it would be like, having someone to come home to. It's ... It's nice."

I turned back my head and softly kissed his neck. He sighed and held my cheek.

I said, "We should go out Saturday night."

He regarded me, his gaze fond. "And do what?"

"Listen to some music, drink some good beer. I'd love to see one or two of the places you and Simon used to sneak off to when you were boys." I put on my best imitation of Rene's accent, "It's N'awlins, cher. Let's listen to some jazz."

Noel sighed and gave my shoulder a push, so I sat back so he could straighten up and rebutton his shirt. "Simon used to play in clubs all over town. Everybody knew him. I haven't been to any clubs since the fire. The funeral was bad enough."

I'd been privileged to see a jazz funeral or two in the time I'd been here. "Was it a big funeral? Was there singing?" 

"There must have been two hundred people at the wake." He smiled to himself, and I supposed the memory was not as terrible as it had been when the grief was still raw. "There was singing. Dancing, too. It's N'awlins, cher." Of course, when he said it, it sounded natural and sweet instead of like a vaudeville parody. Then he said, his voice soft, "I can't bear it when people tell me how much they miss him."

"Of course they miss him," I said. "They loved him, too." He turned unhappy eyes to me, and I put my hand on the back of his neck and leaned our foreheads together. "I think you need to get back to doing things you enjoy instead of avoiding them out of grief."

"Does it help?" he said in a challenging sort of tone. 

"It helps it stop hurting."

He huffed again, but didn't move away from my hand. "You just want to listen to some music."

"Also true," I said. "I want to listen to some music with you."

Noel exhaled slowly. "All right, let's listen to some music."

I kissed him in thanks, and then in appreciation, and then in a few other things, before finally pulling away and driving us back to Fidele.

 

***

 

 

Saturday, Samuel Christie came to Fidele for the day to play with Caleb. Alex brought Samuel in his truck soon after breakfast, as it was too wet to walk, and since Noel was home he said he'd watch the boys while they played.

Left to my own devices, I drew for a while, and then put my pencils and sketchbook away to stretch my legs. The boys' game had spread out from the nursery and the schoolroom, as it often did when they were forced to play inside, and Noel was sprawled on one of the sofas in the vestibule in front of a roaring fireplace, his own notebook open on his knee.

I paused and put my hand on his shoulder, and he looked up at me with a brief smile. No need to speak, so I moved on, this time to the kitchen to talk to Mrs. Bell.

I had a plan, you see. During the war we'd been fed Thanksgiving dinner every November, and at Goodwin School we observed it as a long weekend and fed it to the boys who lived too far away to go home for just four days. I hadn't grown up with Thanksgiving but I liked it, and as the day approached I wanted to bring it to Fidele.

Mrs. Bell was dropping batter into a pot of hot oil when I came to the kitchen. "Mrs. Bell," I said, "would you like to help me with a nefarious plot?"

"You know I don't go in for nefarious, Mr. Malcolm."

"It's not terribly nefarious. I would like to give the Thibodeauxes Thanksgiving dinner, if you would be willing to help with the cooking."

"Thanksgiving dinner," she said, and gave me one of those semi-pitying looks she employed when I displayed my ignorance of the household’s ways. "Mr. Emmanuel doesn't observe holidays."

"Only the ones that involve commemorating the dead, it seems to me."

She shrugged at that. "Help me with these fritters, would you?" I came to the stove, and she showed me how to drop spoonfuls of the cornbread batter into the oil. They sizzled and popped as they began to fry.

I said as we worked, "I'll buy the food. I could even make the pumpkin pie. I just don't know how to cook a turkey. Though," I added as it occurred to me, "it's probably a lot like baking a chicken, don't you think?"

She shook her head again. "Mr. Emmanuel would never allow it."

"Is it the expense? Or the meaning? Would he rather forget he’s got a family?"

Mrs. Bell frowned as she turned the fritters. I could hear Delia, Willie's daughter who helped with the housekeeping, singing to herself as she set the table in the dining room. Mrs. Bell said, "Mr. Emmanuel has a lot to remember."

"A lot to regret, too, I'd say." She didn't respond, and I said, "Has he ever told you why he never married again?"

"No, but I know. He loved Miss Fabienne to distraction. Would have walked the world over for her if she asked." I huffed, and she said, "I know it's hard to believe now, but Mr. Emmanuel wasn't always a hard man. He was in France when the twins were born -- he didn't know she had died until a month later, it took that long for the letter to find him. The Army couldn't even get him home until the next summer."

I poked the fritters as they sizzled in the pot of hot oil. "I'd be more sympathetic if I also didn't know how he took out his grief on Noel."

"Well," Mrs. Bell said, but didn't finish the thought. "Those are the right color now, Mr. Malcolm." She handed me a kitchen spider and I carefully dipped out the fritters to place on a cooling rack. The excess oil would drip onto a baking pan, leaving the fritters crispy on the outside and tender on the inside.

"What do you eat these with?"

"Jam or honey," she said. "Though Mr. Noel likes them with just a dash of salt." She had slices of ham frying in another pan and fresh peaches sliced for the lot of us.

"That sounds delicious." I added as I continued dipping out the fritters, "I'll take responsibility for the dinner. I'm sure I can find a way to assure Emmanuel it's not going to ruin his reputation as a curmudgeon."

She smiled at me and said, "I think it's best we don't make a fuss over it. Will you tell Mr. Noel and the boys that lunch is ready?"

"Will do." I left the kitchen to get Noel and the boys.

Noel was in the vestibule, reading, his notebook put aside. His choice of literature was one of the adventure novels I had brought, I was pleased to see. "Where are Lancelot and Galahad?" I asked him as I joined him on the sofa, and he moved his feet to make room.

Noel pointed up as I heard the tell-tale sound of galloping overheard. "Still upstairs, defending Camelot from the Questing Beast."

"I'm surprised they never get tired of playing knights."

"I'm sure they will once they discover a new interest. Spacemen and astronauts, maybe." He leaned back his head against the sofa arm, his finger holding his place in the book. He wore his reading glasses, which I always enjoyed -- they made him look like a young professor about to lecture on poetry. "Neither of them have much interest in rescuing princesses."

"They're only five," I said. "Girls have cooties, even princesses."

"Still," Noel said, "I wish they would. Emmanuel would be happy to point out the lack of princesses is due to my corrupting influence."

"If Caleb still isn't interested in girls in ten years, Emmanuel might have a point. Meantime, let them play. There's plenty of time for heartbreak later."

"Heartbreak?" Noel said, looking at me through his long, thick lashes, and I had to swallow hard. "That's where your mind goes when you think about love?"

"A hard lesson taught by experience," I answered, and then slapped his foot. "I was set to fetch you to lunch. Come, eat." I got to my feet and shouted upstairs, "Caleb! Samuel! Lunch is ready!"

I heard them running down the gallery on the second floor -- and then instead of coming down the stairs, Caleb slipped between the spindles of the banister and waved to us.

"Jesus Christ!" Noel shouted and was on his feet at once. "Caleb Thibodeaux, get out of there!"

Caleb's happy smile disappeared and he looked frightened as he tried to push himself back through the spindles. Samuel called out from behind him, "It's the portcullis, Mr. Noel! Every castle has one!"

"It's twenty goddamn feet in the air, is what it is," Noel said as he bounded up the stairs, two at a time. "Caleb! Stay where you are. I'll get you."

I positioned myself under where Caleb would likely land if he lost his grip, but before he could even try to push himself through the spindles again, Noel yanked Caleb onto the safety of the landing by the back of his shirt.

"What's with you and terrifying me, huh?" Noel said, hanging onto Caleb tight. Caleb clung to him around his neck and kissed his cheeks, and Noel sighed. "Yes, I love you too," he said quietly. "Just don't take chances like that, peanut, okay? Come on." He put Caleb down and held out his other hand to Samuel. "Lunch is ready."

"There's ham and cornbread fritters," I said, and the boys pelted toward the kitchen.

Noel followed more slowly, and when he reached me he took hold of my elbow and leaned against me for a moment. I patted his hair. "Don't worry so much," I said, hoping to reassure him. "Small boys are made of India rubber."

"I live in dread of the day we discover that isn't true." He sighed and straightened up. "I'm better now. Let's eat."

We headed toward the kitchen ourselves, and Noel said, "Where in the world did they learn the word 'portcullis'?"

 

***

 

That night, with Samuel home again and Caleb in bed, Noel and I drove into the city. We planned to stay out until the last club closed on Bourbon Street, though I suspected that might prove too much for Noel. As much as I hoped that running into Simon's old friends would be comforting, I was worried it would turn out to be painful instead. If there were places he wanted to avoid, I wouldn't press it -- I would just hope Noel would want to try another time. 

Noel parked the Jaguar in a public lot in the French Quarter. We sat for a few minutes as we watched the Saturday-night crowd go by -- or rather, Noel watched the crowd and I watched Noel.

I said, "We can do this another time."

Noel gave a slight start, as if he'd forgotten I was there, then said, "No ... No. It's fine. I want to. You wanted to hear some music. So do I. Come on." He got out of the car.

We walked slowly through the crowd, my hand in the crook of Noel's elbow. Perfectly acceptable, of course, the able-bodied man supporting the crippled one, but I liked it much more than I normally did when someone tried to help. With Noel, it was never condescending.

We passed a club or two, where we could hear blues pouring out from one and more up-tempo jazz from the other. The buildings were what a newcomer might picture when they think of New Orleans -- Creole-style brick with tall doors and windows, little bistros on the balconies overhead, the air perfumed with flowers that hung from the wrought iron railings.

"When you and Simon were boys, how would you get into the city?" I said as we walked.

"We'd hitchhike until we learned to drive," Noel said. "Then we'd just take one of Fidele's cars." He smiled a little. "Wille would leave the keys to the truck in the kitchen."

"So he knew."

"Of course. We couldn't hide anything from Willie." He paused and looked up at a sign that hung over the sidewalk that read "Club 4/4" in blue neon light. "This is a good place to start."

We went inside. Like most bars and clubs I'd seen in the city so far, there was a bar at one end and a stage at the other, with booths and tables along the walls and plenty of room for dancing. Business appeared to be brisk, though it wasn't as crowded as the more well-known places like Preservation Hall or the Famous Door; but most of the tables and every booth was occupied, and the trio on the stage played confidently behind a girl singer with a strong, rich voice.

We ordered a pitcher of beer and took it to one of the empty tables, near the stage. The sax player missed a note in his trill, making the singer look at him sternly, but they all picked up and kept going.

The music was good enough to make me smile and tap my foot. Noel sipped his beer, listening with a serious expression.

When the song ended, the singer said, "We're going to take five," and all four of them got down from the stage. Noel smiled and stood as the girl ran into his arms and kissed both his cheeks.

"Noel Thibodeaux," she said and slapped his arm. "We thought you'd been swallowed by the swamp."

"I've been a little busy," Noel said, and shook hands with the musicians. "This is Malcolm Carmichael. He's Caleb's tutor." I got to my feet too and shook their hands, and the singer kissed my cheek, too. "Cozy Romero," Noel said, indicating the saxophone player, "Fess Johnson," the bass player, "Remy Leblanc," the pianist, "and Eula Charles," the singer. They were all about our age, Negro, well-dressed. Fess had lost a leg below the knee, and Remy had burn scars on his face. We nodded to each other in recognition, fellow veterans one to another.

They pulled over chairs and another table, and one of the waitresses brought more glasses and another pitcher of beer.

"I thought I was seeing a ghost when y'all came in," said Cozy as he poured. "Threw me off my rhythmn."

"Sorry," Noel said.

"Hey, it was a dumb mistake." The glasses full, they all picked up theirs. Noel and I did as well, and Cozy said, "To Grace and Simon." They repeated it softly, and drank. So did I; Noel's mouth twisted, and he drank.

Fess said, as he wiped foam off his lips, "The only sign we've had that you're still alive is that we still get paid. You need to show up sometimes, Noel. Let us know you're still breathing."

"I'll try to come around more often," Noel said.

I looked at Noel, eyebrows raised. "You neglected to mention you own a blues club."

He shrugged. "This was Simon's place," he said. "It'll be Caleb's when he's old enough, if he wants it. For now all of my involvement is I've hired a manager and sign the checks."

"The new manager is working out well," Eula said, patting Cozy's shoulder, and he nodded in thanks.

"Simon used to play with my pops, back in the day," said Cozy to me. "When the old owner wanted to sell this place, Simon bought it and told Pops he'd always have a place to play, as long as he wanted. Pops played here until the day he passed in '49."

That sounded like the Simon I was coming to know. "What happened to the old manager?"

"The old manager was Gracie," Cozy said softly, and all four of them drank again. I drank too, feeling chastised. Of course it was Grace. Their marriage fascinated me -- Simon was the dreamer, it seemed to me, while Grace kept his feet on the ground.

"How is Caleb?" Eula asked Noel. "I miss his sweet face."

"He's doing better."

"Is he speaking again?"

"Not yet," Noel said. "But he's reading and writing, and drawing a lot, and he's made a friend of the farm manager's son. Malcolm's doing a good job with him."

"Thanks," I murmured, as Eula beamed at me.

"I'm glad to hear it. I've been so worried -- the two of you in that big old house with your daddy."

"Emmanuel mostly keeps to himself, really," Noel said. "I only see him at suppertime or when he deigns to make an appearance. It could be worse."

"Mm-hm," Eula said, in a way that said she knew exactly how worse it could be. She asked me, "And what's your story, handsome?"

"French and art teacher from California," I said. "I play a little guitar, but I'm more of a fan than a player."

"Tell Noel he needs to come play more often," Eula said. "We've missed him."

"Noel," I said, and he smiled as he sipped his beer. "You need to play more often. Your friends have missed you."

"I've missed them too," Noel said quietly, "and I'll come play sometime. A Tuesday afternoon."

They all laughed, and spent a few minutes catching up on other friends and fellow musicians before they went back onto the stage. This time, Eula picked up a set of small bongo drums and sat in a chair by the piano. Cozy said into the microphone, "This is for Simon."

All conversation stopped. The trio and Eula went into a piece that featured the piano, backed by the other instruments. It was soft and lovely, in a minor key, but didn't have the melancholy feeling that many minor-key songs can have.

It wasn't a piece I recognized, but in a moment I knew Noel did. His gaze fixed on the table as if he couldn't bear to watch the musicians play, and his hands gripped each other under the table.

I reached over and put my hand on top of his, and after a moment or two he exhaled slowly and loosened his enough for me to weave our fingers together. I whispered, "Do you need to go?"

"No," he said and lifted up his head, resolute. "I should stay."

"Okay," I said, and went on holding his hand.

 

***

 

We ended up not visiting any other clubs that night, which I'm sure comes to no surprise, nor did we stay long past midnight. A few other patrons came to Noel during the night to say how glad they were to see him and how sorry they were about Simon, and Noel handled it gracefully. Still, I could see it was a relief to say good night to musicians and patrons alike, and walk back to the Jag.

To distract him as we walked, I said, "Thanksgiving is this week."

"Is it?" Noel said. My hand was once again wrapped around his elbow. A good thing, I thought, since his attention was utterly not on our surroundings.

I decided to be blunt. "Do you want to observe it?"

Noel inhaled, and then shrugged. "I never have, outside of the army, which served us dry turkey, lumpy mashed potatoes, and salty stuffing. No, thank you."

"I'll learn how to cook a turkey, if Mrs. Bell doesn't want to do it."

He glanced at me. "You're angling for something."

"Just Thanksgiving dinner. I like it. I think you all would like it, too."

Noel sighed. "Malcolm, we're not a happy family. Stop pretending you can make us into one."

"I don't believe it's too late for you," I said. "Caleb loves you, you love Caleb, Emmanuel loves Caleb--" Noel huffed at that, and I said, "He doesn't know how to show it, but he does. And Caleb wants to love Emmanuel. He's his grandfather, after all. Simon wanted them to have a relationship."

"You can't make everything better by serving us dinner," Noel said.

I was about to retort I knew that when a man stepped out of the alley and pointed an Army-issue revolver at us. "Give me your wallet!s"

His hand was shaking. He was white, skinny, with dilated pupils and clothes that had seen better days. His dogtags hung around his neck. His story was plain to see. Some vets made the best lives they could after the war -- some lost their way even after they came home.

I dropped Noel's arm. "Stay calm," I said to the man. "Nobody wants to get hurt."

"Shut up and give me your wallet!"

"I'm reaching for it now," I said, moving my hand to my back pocket. Beside me, I felt Noel tense.

Like quicksilver, Noel grabbed the man by the wrist and twisted the man's arm around his own neck. He wound a leg between both the man's and yanked, and they both fell to the pavement. The gun skittered away and I scrambled after it, and took out the bullets as Noel held the man down with a knee between his shoulder blades. He ordered, "At ease, soldier!" The man struggled, and Noel pressed harder. "I said _at fucking ease_."

The man finally went limp, and Noel released his arms. The man rolled out from under him and stumbled to his feet, and ran away as fast as he could manage.

"Hey!" Noel shouted after him, and then sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. "I was going to tell him where he could get some help. Dammit."

"Maybe he'll ask for it someday," I said. "What should we do with this?" I held up the gun by the trigger guard.

"Take it to the police, probably." He sighed again. "I'll do it on Monday."

I stuck the pistol in my waistband, and came to Noel. He was trembling -- adrenaline, I suspected, and memories. I took my face in his hands and kissed him.

"You're magnificent, you know," I said. He leaned his head against mine and sighed. "Want me to drive?"

"Please," Noel said, and I kept my arm around him as we walked the rest of the way to the parking lot.

Noel kept his thoughts to himself on the drive home, though he smiled at me briefly whenever I touched his arm or shoulder. I didn't blame him for keeping quiet. It had been one hell of a night.

Parked in the carriage house, I turned off the engine and said, "That song the trio played, with the bongos. Simon wrote that, didn't he?"

"He did," Noel said.

"It's beautiful. Did he write a lot of music?"

"Not a lot. He wasn't a natural songwriter. But some of them are really good."

"I bet Grace loved it," I said, and Noel looked at me with a faint frown. "That song was written for her, wasn't it?"

Noel got out of the car. "It written was for me." He left the carriage house.


	23. Thanksgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> We're not a happy family. Stop pretending you can make us into one.

My nightmares had tapered off during November, as if the dream on Halloween night used up all their energy; but tonight, almost as soon as I dropped off I was back in Hurtgen Forest, and the man who’d tried to mug us now wore a German uniform and shouted, “Give me your wallet!” before his machine gun opened fire.

I jerked awake and scrambled for my rifle before I remembered when and where I was, and sank back into bed, trembling. The house was so quiet even my damaged hearing could pick up the ticking of the grandfather clock in the passage. For a minute or two I tried to breathe along to its measured rhythm, and then grabbed my cane and a dressing gown and left my room. I wanted Noel so badly I could only hope he would forgive me for taking this risk.

I let myself into Noel’s room and searched the bed for him with my hand. It was too dark to see without pulling back the bed curtains, and after a minute I realized the bed was empty. I shoved my hand through my hair, despairing -- and then heard the quiet sound of piano music.

If it was Simon, Noel would be there.

Hastily, I made my way downstairs to the music room, where to my surprise I saw it was Noel at the keyboard. Not watching unseen hands press the keys, as I now knew I had seen before, but playing himself, his gaze fixed on the windows opposite the piano even though there was nothing to see in the darkness. The song was melancholy but sweet, and after a moment or two I realized this was the song the band had played at the 4/4 Club, the song Simon had written.

I went to him, hesitated, and then sat on the bench beside him. Wordlessly, he stopped playing and wrapped his arms around me, I wrapped mine around him, and we clung to each other and trembled and kissed.

When I was calm again, I whispered, “Bad night for you, too, huh?"

"I've had worse." He paused, then whispered, "I wish we could go to bed together."

"We have been in bed together."

"I mean," Noel said, "I wish we could brush our teeth and kiss good night, and fall asleep around the same time and wake up to the same alarm clock. That's what I wish."

I lifted my head from his shoulder and studied his face. I wanted it, too. "We'll have it someday."

"I hope so. It's hard to be patient."

"I know. Usually I'm not patient at all."

Noel chuckled. "I know."

"I don't know how you do it," I said. "It must get frustrating."

"Oh, I have outlets. I box at the YMCA, for instance. Of course,” he added, “I tend to go overboard sometimes and then it’a hard to find a sparring partner.”

“You box,” I said. He socked my jaw, little more than a nudge, and I grinned at him. “You are full of secrets, Noel Thibodeaux.”

“I’m sure you’ve got a few of your own.”

I did -- I do -- but I only kissed his mouth and lay my head on his shoulder. He chuckled and combed his fingers through my hair.

"We should go sometime," he murmured. "You can swim, can't you? There's a pool."

"I can swim, but I hate it when people stare at my scars."

"There are enough vets who go there that everyone's used to battle scars." He paused, then said, "Swimming was compulsory at my boarding school. I didn't want to, of course. I pretended to be sick to my stomach for the first few weeks when we were supposed to swim, which got the attention of the school nurse. She was the first one to see my scars at this school, and she -- I remember her face. Her lips went very tight and her face turned red, and I thought she was going to scold me, or worse. But instead she went to the headmaster and they got the swimming coach, and they decided I should still learn to swim but do it without the other boys around.

"So for about the next six years it was just the coach, his assistant, and me during the swimming season, and they never asked about the scars." He paused again, then said, "I hadn't realized before then that people would want to be kind to me. I'm still surprised sometimes when people are kind."

I listened to this story with my eyes closed, and when he was done I held his face and kissed him, hard. I pressed our heads together and he held me tighter. "You deserve kindness, baby," I whispered with another kiss to his mouth. "You deserve everything sweet."

"Malcolm," he said and we kissed, desperate for each other's touch.

We stopped only when our elbows hit the piano keyboard, sending a atonal chord echoing through the house. We froze, both of us breathing hard, and Noel placed his fingers on my lips.

The house remained quiet. It was possible anyone listening might write off the sound as just the house being its usual self, but it was also possible that someone was waiting for further noises to follow.

"I should go," I whispered and slipped out of Noel's arms. I rearranged my disheveled clothes and groped for my cane, and looked at Noel in the pre-dawn light. As exhausted he looked, he was beautiful this way, hair mussed and lips red. I ached to stay.

I merely kissed him again and said, "Get some sleep," and he smiled and said, "You too," and watched me as I left.

I fell asleep again almost as soon as I lay in my own bed. The next time I opened my eyes the sun was up and I could smell bacon frying for breakfast, and I heard Caleb run down the passage from the nursery and across the vestibule to wake up Noel. A typical Sunday morning for Fidele.

Before I could sit up or even put my dressing gown on again, Noel tapped on the door. "Malcolm, Caleb wants to see you before we go."

"Come in," I said and sat up. Noel opened the door and in ran Caleb, who climbed up onto my bed and put his arms around my neck. I hugged him. "Did you miss us last night, little man?"

He nodded and leaned his head on my shoulder.

Noel sat on the bed too. "I haven't even told Caleb about where we went last night. Do you remember Eula?" Caleb nodded again. "We saw her at the 4/4 last night. She misses you. We should go by some time when the band is playing so they can see you."

Caleb frowned, but nodded and then played with top button on my pajama top. I patted his back. Noel was watching him too, also frowning, and said, "We can't linger too long, peanut. We need to get to church."

Caleb sigh, kissed my cheek, and clambered down from the bed and ran out of the room. Noel looked at me and touched my hand. "See you later."

"See you," I said, and wrapped my arm around one knee as I watched him go.

Noel was right, I couldn't fix everything with a dinner. I couldn't fix everything, period. But I could give them what I had, my love and my patience and my strength, and hope it would be enough even though it was far less than what they deserved.

 

***

 

Late Thursday morning, I drove into the city. Since Noel was so set against having Thanksgiving dinner at Fidele and Rene had invited me to join his family, I decided to stop pressing Noel about it and to accept Rene's invitation. During the war, when my unit was given Thanksgiving dinner Rene had waxed rhapsodic about his family's traditions, turkey so tender you didn't need a knife to slice it, sweet potato pie, collard greens, smashed red potatoes, cornbread dressing. I was eager to try this particular meal in the southern style, since the southern food Mrs. Bell cooked for us always turned out so delicious and satisfying.

I parked down the street from the Gaspards' house. As usual, the street was lined with cars as families all over the neighborhood got together to celebrate, and the air smelled delicious, like cinnamon and freshly-baked bread.

When I rang the bell at the Gaspards' house, Mrs. Gaspard greeted me and kissed my cheek. "Rene is in the back with the rest of the menfolk," she said and offered an arm for me to lean on as we through the house.

"What are they doing back there?"

"Cooking the turkey, cher."

I imagined an outdoor brick oven like those we'd sometimes seen in Europe, but what I found was the men of the Gaspard family gathered around a row of contraptions I'd never seen: three tall pots on stands, all filled with boiling oil. The men were drinking beers and chatting, and when I came outside Rene broke off from the group with a big grin. "Sarge! Welcome!"

"Thank you." We shook hands heartily. "What's all this?"

"Deep-fried turkey, naturally." At my blank expression he laughed and said, "This is how we've always done it, for as long as I can remember. Leave the meat tender and the skin crispy. You'll love it." He fetched a bottle of beer from the usual tub of ice and gave it to me. I twisted off the top and had a swig, and Rene asked, "So no one from Fidele wanted to join us?"

"Noel doesn't like Thanksgiving," I said, "and Caleb didn't want to come without Noel." That was my guess, anyway -- when I'd asked Caleb if he'd like to join me at the Gaspards, his answer had been an indifferent shrug.

"Aw, that's too bad," said Rene. "We were hoping to see them again. But I understand Noel not wanting to spend a day that's about family, given everything with his."

"Yeah," I murmured. "Hey, have you ever been to the 4/4 Club?"

He nodded. "I have. It's a nice little place. Good music, good food."

"Noel owns it. Well, he's keeping it for Caleb. It was Simon's."

"Oh, yes," Rene said. "I haven't been since the fire. I wasn't sure it would still be open."

"It's open. Noel and I went this weekend. The musicians were so happy it see him, it made me wonder if he used to play there regularly."

"I didn't go there often enough to know, but I wouldn't think so. Simon was the musician."

"The dreamer," I said. "That's the impression that I get."

"Likely so." He shrugged. "With Fidele so isolated and the family so -- how they are -- most of what I know about them is second-hand. Even with Grace and Simon Thibodeaux living in the city, we didn't exactly move in the same social circles, us."

"Right," I said, turning his words over in my mind.

He patted my back and nodded to the row of boilers. "Gotta go watch the birds cook. We'll eat in about half an hour. There's snacks inside, if you need a nibble."

"Go on," I said, and went back into the house.

The children were playing together in the big living room, minded by whoever wasn't cooking. I peeped into the kitchen, not wanting to get in the way there; it was bustling with activity as pies were taken out of the oven and potatoes boiled in pots of water; one sister was looking in on a pan of stuffing and another was carefully arranging vegetables in a pattern on a plate, alternating carrot sticks and cherry tomatoes and small pieces of celery.

Looking up from her pan of gravy, Angelique spotted me and came over to give me a hug. I hugged her back gladly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"We've got it all in hand, Malcolm, but thank you. Danielle, will you stir the gravy for a few minutes?" We moved out of the kitchen to a slightly quieter part of the house, a sun porch that looked out over the back yard. It was lined with cushioned benches on three sides, and Angelique knelt on one so she could look outside. I eased myself onto the bench beside her and leaned against the wall, and watched her as she watched the men.

"Look at him," she said softly, and I knew she meant Rene. "I've known him since I was a girl. I still marvel that he's going to marry me."

I said, "You've got yourself a good man, Angelique," and she smiled at me.

"He'll do. He'll do fine. I know his injuries may mean he can't give me children, but there are nieces and nephews enough to make up for it."

"I'm afraid I don't know any details about that," I said. "I hardly remember Hurtgen Forest."

"Oh, I understand. That part -- I won't say it's not important, because it is, but it's not why I'm marrying him."

"Sometimes people just want to be together," I said.

"Exactly." She paused. "Maybe if you're still teaching Caleb next year, you can convince Noel and Caleb to join us then."

"Maybe," I said. "Noel doesn't care for the holiday much, though. There are some things even I can't convince him to do."

"He's become your sweetheart," she said.

I hadn't thought of it that way, but I nodded.

Angelique patted my shoulder with a quiet laugh, and looked out the window again, leaning her chin on her hand. "It's not hard to see. You're very tender with him."

"I suppose so. His father can't know, so we're trying to keep things quiet."

"That's wise."

I said, after a moment, "He thinks his family is cursed, that anyone who marries into it will die."

"Given their history, I don't blame him. His mother, his grandmother, his great-grandmother -- it goes back for generations."

"Yes," I said softly, "I've noticed. They're all in the family Bible and the cemetery." I hesitated again, then said, "We think -- and suspect Grace may have thought so, too -- that it's Charlotte Thibodeaux haunting the house."

"Charlotte? The family matriarch?"

"Yes. The one who's said to have lost her mind and tried to kill her baby."

"Hm," said Angelique, and turned away from the window so she could sit beside me. "It would make sense, as far as anything involving a haunting makes sense. She's said to have taken her own life. Violent deaths often do create a ghost."

"Grace was looking into the family history," I said, "but if she found any records that proved her theory, they were lost in the fire."

"But you still want to prove it," she said, looking at me frankly.

"I want to see if we're right, and if we're not right, I want to know who that ghost is. If we figure out why they're haunting the house, maybe we can find a way to put them to rest."

"Which is your ultimate goal."

I toyed with my cane. "I want Noel and Caleb to feel safe in their own house, and right now, they don't."

Angelique was quiet, twisting her engagement ring on her finger as she thought.

I said, "You know so much about the spiritual world and I know next to nothing, aside from what I've observed over the last few years."

"You want my help."

"Your help or your advice."

She played with her ring a moment more. "A vodun practitioner could cleanse the house, or a Catholic priest could bless it."

"But would that end the curse? Could _you_ end the curse?"

She sighed and laughed at once. "I've never laid a curse on someone, Malcolm. I don't know how you'd lift one."

"Well, it was a thought."

She was quiet a moment more, then said, "Do you want answers, or do you just want the ghost gone?"

I said slowly, "I'm not sure ghosts _can_ be driven out of the place they're haunting. I'd rather have answers, but Noel might have a different idea."

"You haven't talked to him about this?" I shook my head and she gave her little half-laugh, half-sigh again. "You ought to do that, not make his decisions for him."

"I've been either a teacher or a unit commander for the last ten years," I said. "I'm used to making the decisions."

"That may get you in trouble someday."

"I'm sure it will."

She twisted her ring, then gave it a final, determined turn and said, "I think what we ought to do is hold a seance. We'll try to talk to the ghost and figure out who she is and what she wants, and then we can decide what to do after that." She fixed her eye on me. "But not without Noel's permission _before_ , Malcolm."

"I'll ask him. When should we do it?"

"After midwinter," Angelique said. "It's a thin time of year -- the veil between worlds is thin, I mean -- and the spirits might be ready to communicate. I think New Year's Eve would be best, too. A time of transition is always a good time to hold a seance, too."

"Okay," I said. "I'll talk to Noel. Thank you, Angelique."

"Don't thank me yet," she replied. "The funny thing about talking to ghosts is you may not learn anything you actually want to know."

"Tell me about it," I said.

Rene appeared in the sunroom doorway. "There you are! Making time with my girl, are you, Sarge?"

"Yep," I said. "Seducing her away from you with my wiles."

He laughed and came to us to offer both hands to help us up. "Come and eat first, then we'll talk about who's seducing whom."

Angelique hopped up and kissed his cheek. "Mon homme," she said tenderly, her arms around his waist.

"Ma belle," he replied and kissed her hair, and we finally got me to my feet from the low bench.

 

***

 

I was eager to get back to Noel now that Angelique and I had a plan. It was still early evening when I parked the truck in the carriage house, and the lights were on in the library.

Noel put down his pencil when I sat at the table across from him. "You look like you had a good time."

"I did," I said. "I like the Gaspards. They're good people. They deep-fried the turkey for our dinner, too, which I've never had."

"That sounds good."

"It was. Noel," I leaned over the table a little, "I may have done something a littlepresumptuous."

Noel raised his eyes at me. " _May_ have?"

"I talked to Angelique about our ghost."

"Oh?" Eyebrows still raised, waiting for me to continue.

"If what we want is answers, then she thinks we should have a seance."

Noel was wearing his reading glasses, usual when he was working on a draft, and he pushed them up his nose. "A seance."

"Yes. Or if we just want the ghost gone, we hire a vodun priest to cleanse the house, or a Catholic one for an exorcism."

"Emmanuel would never allow either of those."

"Then I guess we're having a seance."

"Malcolm..." He shook his head with a sigh. "Emmanuel would never allow that, either."

"Maybe we should beg forgiveness rather than ask permission."

"Your usual mode of operation," Noel observed, and I just smiled at him, unabashed.

"I'm more concerned with your permission than with his."

"What exactly would this seance involve?"

"We didn't go into that much detail. In films there's usually candles and chanting to summon the spirits."

Noel was still regarding me skeptically. "When do you want to do this?"

"New Year's Eve."

"That's better than tomorrow night," Noel murmured. He sighed, then said, "All right. But, but," he added when I stood so I could lean over the table and kiss him, "only if Caleb is sleeping somewhere else that night, maybe at the Christies', and provided there aren't too many people involved."

"We can arrange that," I said. "We should start talking about Christmas sometime soon, too."

"Malcolm, _no,_ " Noel groaned. "No Christmas. No holidays. It's not worth the hell Emmanuel will raise."

"I'll take responsibility," I said. "I'll beg forgiveness."

"Go to bed, Malcolm," Noel said and bent his head over his draft again. "I'm not in the mood for this."

"Tomorrow?"

" _Good night_ , Malcolm."

I rose from the table, and then came around to his side and kissed his hair. He sighed slowly, and said again, gently this time, "Good night, Malcolm."

"Good night, Noel." I ran my hand over his head and made my way upstairs.


	24. Old Familiar Carols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> "I want Noel and Caleb to feel safe in their own house, and right now, they don't."

Instead of bringing up Christmas to Noel again, I wrote to my father. I told him my worries that ignoring Caleb's first Christmas without his parents would only make things worse for him, and asked for advice on how to convince both Emmanuel and Noel that we needed to celebrate this holiday, expressing my frustration that they were so reluctant. 

Dad wrote back,

_My dear Malcolm,_

_It’a a simple fact of human nature that one becomes accustomed to a certain level of grief. From what you've told me of Emmanuel Thibodeaux, I can easily believe he’s so used to his grief that he wears it like a hair shirt. Noel may be fighting against following in his father’s footsteps, but it’s a hard battle. He's had a lot of grief to cope with, too, and from a very young age. It doesn't surprise me that Christmas only reminds them of all of those losses and brings no comfort._

_But Caleb is a child. His memories of Christmas are nothing but joyful. He needs at least one day a year where love is paramount and the adults around him can believe in wonder._

_In your shoes, I would frame the argument this way. This is for Caleb. Noel and Emmanuel can go back to hating each other on Boxing Day, but on Christmas, all they need to remember is their mutual love for him._

_Of course we would love to see you at home for Christmas this year, but if you feel should stay with your charge, then you should stay._

_Love,_

_Dad_

As always, his advice seemed like the most sensible thing to do. Christmas was a bad day for all three of them. If I could help them forget, even for a few hours, then any protest over it would be well worth it.

It seemed to me, the best way to do it was to just _do_ it -- get a tree and decorations, prepare a meal, buy some records with holiday tunes.

A few days after the letter from Dad, I got another letter, this one from Mary Kate.

_Dear Malcolm,_

_I understand from Dad that you're staying in New Orleans over the holidays. I hope this means you will be a peacemaker for the Thibodeauxes when they most need it. I'm mailing a present to you, and one for Caleb and Noel, too. I feel like I know Caleb already, given what you've told me and what I've learned from Noel._

_I also have a scheme, and I think Noel would be amiable to it. George has a long holiday break, and while we're planning to spend Christmas Day with his parents in Naperville, it's not a long drive and we'll be home Christmas Night. At first we planned to do nothing more than putter about the house for a week, but now I think we should take a trip south and be in New Orleans over New Year's._

_What do you think? Would the Thibodeauxes like a few visitors? George will need to be back to work by the third, but that gives us plenty of time for a brief visit._

_Of course, if they (or you) are dead-set against it, I won't say another word._

_Love always,_

_Mary Kate_

In the tradition of southern hospitality, Fidele had several guest rooms, though it seemed to me they had gone unused for generations. But even knowing that Noel liked the Talbots and they liked him, I had no idea if Noel would agree. I wanted them to come, but while there were some things I felt good about just _doing_ and not waiting for permission, but inviting my sister and her family to stay for a few days was not one of them.

I should say Noel was not displeased with me. I knew I exasperated him at times, but there was fondness along with the exasperation. We still had our stolen moments, we still discussed Caleb and his progress daily, and we still told each other our stories in quiet moments of intimacy. But there were things about him that I longed to know and couldn't approach; I had questions he simply refused to answer.

The day I received Mary Kate's letter, I asked him point-blank as we worked together in the library. "My sister would like to visit with her family over New Year's. May they come?"

He looked up as if surprised I'd think to ask, and smiled a tiny bit as he took off his reading glasses. "Wouldn't your family rather get together in California?"

I toyed with my pencil. "I'm not worried about Dad. Between my uncles and Duncan, I know he'll be taken care of."

"I was thinking more of you seeing your home for a few days."

"I'd rather be there."

"Well," Noel murmured, "that's ... that's very good." He cleared his throat. "I like the Talbots, but I'd hate to subject them to how unpleasant things around here can be."

"I've been very open to Mary Kate in my letters," I said. "I think she knows what to expect, but wants to come anyway."

"Have you, now."

"She's my sister," I said, and he nodded at that.

"Let's bring it up to Emmanuel tomorrow night at dinner."

"Thank you, Noel," I said.

“Don’t thank me yet. There’s still Emmanuel to deal with. If he's truly against it, we could find them a nice hotel, maybe in the Quarter.” He put his reading glasses on and went back to his notes, then said, “So you’ve abandoned the seance plan, have you?”

“No, I still want to do that, and Angelique is still willing. Mary Kate would be up for it. George, probably not. I'll tell her about it when I write her back." I studied him. "What do you think?"

He tapped his pencil on his notepad a few times. "I did ask you not to involve too many people."

"There'll only be six of us. Five if George decides he'd rather watch the baby."

He regarded me thoughtfully, tapped his pencil a few times more, and said, "I want answers. I don't know if this is the way to get them, but it's the best option we've got now."

"Angelique said we may not get the answers we want."

"At the point I'd settle for any answers at all." He said this simply, bending his head over his work again, but something about the starkness of it made me reach across the table to put my hand over his. It was always a risk -- Emmanuel would have loved to catch us in anything that could be interpreted as a compromising position -- but Noel didn't pull away.

I said, as I ran my thumb over the inside of his wrist, "Have you thought any more about celebrating Christmas?"

"Malcolm," he began with a sigh.

"For Caleb's sake."

He looked up at me, frowning.

"This is Caleb's first Christmas without his parents,” I said. “He remembers last year, and probably the year before. Maybe even the year before that. I know you have celebrated -- I've seen the pictures." I leaned over the table. "I know it's going to hurt, Noel. I know. But he needs you to put that aside."

His hand trembled under mine. He pulled it away and said, "I have to think about this," as he rose from the table.

"Noel," I said, but he left the library without answering or looking back at me. I sighed and shoved my hand through my hair, and wondered if I should approach Emmanuel about it now or wait until I knew what Noel thought. I was still going to put up a tree and place presents for Caleb beneath it, but I would rather it involve the entire household, not just the two of us.

When I went to bed that night, there was a note under my pillow, written in Noel's clear, architectural handwriting.

_Malcolm,_

_I have spent the hour looking at those pictures from last Christmas and missing my brother, and thinking about what Simon would want me to do._

_I love Caleb, and I'll do whatever I can to make him happy. Let's make him happy. Gifts and candy and Santa Claus and all of it, whatever nonsense you think is appropriate for the day._

_You are impossible, you know. I shouldn't let you get away with half of what you do. But indulging you makes_ _me_ _happy, so I suppose I'll have to let you continue._

_\- N._

 

_***_

 

At supper the following night, Noel surprised me by breaking the usual silence. "Father, I've decided we need to celebrate the holidays."

Emmanuel's fork paused on its way to his mouth. So did mine. So did Caleb's, and he looked from Noel to me with trepidation.

"You have, have you?" Emmanuel said.

"Yes," Noel said. "We're going to put up a tree and exchange gifts. You may join us if you wish."

"Oh, _may_ I?"

"Yes. In addition, Malcolm's sister and her family will be visiting over New Year's."

"Is this suddenly not my house?" Emmanuel said, putting down his fork. "When was I usurped as the head of the household?"

Noel was still calm, though I could see how he was bracing himself in case Emmanuel turned physical. "I'm Caleb's guardian, which means I decide what's best for him, and I have decided that what's best for Caleb is to have Christmas. As for the Talbots, they have been very welcoming to me whenever I've been to Chicago since we met, so the least I can do is return their hospitality." He picked up his wine glass and said, "You don't have to join us if you don't want to," before casually having a sip.

Emmanuel glared at him, then pointed at me. "You have caused nothing but trouble since you came into this house, Carmichael."

"Merry Christmas to you, too, sir," I said, and he harrumphed and shoved himself away from the table. He stalked out of the dining room, muttering.

When the dining room doors shut behind him, Noel and I both exhaled in unison, and we smiled at each other. Beside me, Caleb vibrated with excitement. Noel said, "What do you think, peanut? I bet Mr. Malcolm will help you write a letter to Santa Claus."

"Absolutely," I said, and Caleb hugged my arm.

I set about getting the house ready for the holiday openly. There were already presents and a stocking for Caleb hidden in my wardrobe. Now, I set the radio to a station that played holiday tunes, and taught French carols to Caleb like _Petit Papa Noël_. I asked Willie to help me find a place to buy a good fir or blue spruce. I found a French bakery that made Bûche de Noël, and asked Mrs. Bell if she would help me prepare a dinner for Christmas Day.

She narrowed her eyes at me. "Mr. Emmanuel doesn't even go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve," she replied. "He'll never sit down to a Christmas dinner."

"Then the rest of us will," I said. "Though if it's left to my abilities it may just be a pile of pasta and some steamed vegetables."

"Yankees," she murmured, shaking her head.

"Cowboys," I said, starting to smile. "Please, Mrs. Bell. This is for Caleb."

Her skeptical expression softened, and she said unexpectedly, "Miss Fabienne loved Christmas."

"She did?"

"Oh, yes. She was delighted her baby was due at Christmastime. Her original plan was to name him Simon Noel."

"That's a good name," I said. "What's Noel's middle name?"

"Julien," Mrs. Bell said. "I chose it."

"It's a very good name," I said. With its soft liquid consonants and melodic vowels, it was a beautiful name to speak; but like so many other words, its meaning was bound up in the associations with it, and I would have loved Noel's name even if it were Egbert -- though I probably would have given him a nickname as soon as he allowed it.

"Very well," Mrs. Bell said. "Let's make Christmas dinner. What do you have in mind?"

We decided on a French Christmas dinner like my family had eaten when I was a boy: smoked salmon, green beans, champagne; she added a few dishes customary in Louisiana Christmas dinners, and we agreed it would be a fine, hearty meal.

Willie told me that the best place to get an evergreen was from the forestry students, who raised trees on their grounds all year to sell in December and help fund their studies. We took the truck out to the lot where the students had freshly-cut trees for sale and had a look around, and Willie found a seven-foot fir that he thought would fit in the vestibule. I bought it and we took it home, where the gardeners and Willie carried it inside.

Once they had set it up in the vestibule, Caleb circled the tree, his eyes enormous. I asked him, "Do you think it's a pretty tree?" and he beamed at me. We set about decorating it with red and gold ornaments, Bing Crosby crooning in the background.

Noel's reaction when he came home was the exact opposite of Caleb’s -- there was something like despair in his face as he looked at the tree.

I put my hand on his back. "Noel?"

There was a pause, then Noel said, "I don't know how I feel about all of this."

I rubbed his back. "I hope you'll feel good, eventually. I want to make it as good a day for you as I can."

"That's a tough task you've set for yourself."

"I know," I said, "but I'm up to the challenge." I paused, then said, "Do you want to do anything for your birthday? We could put candles in the Bûche de Noël."

"No, thank you," he said politely and looked back at the tree. "When's your birthday?"

"March twenty-seventh," I said. "I was an actually Easter baby."

"Of course you were," Noel murmured. He inhaled and exhaled deeply. "Well. I said you could do this, so I'm not going to stop you. Just try not to overdo it."

"So," I said slowly, "should I cancel the order for twelve maids a-milking and so on down?"

"You can keep the five gold rings," Noel said. "They're quiet." He climbed the stairs to put his satchel away.

Not long afterward, as Caleb and I were working on his letter to Santa, I heard the front door slam and Emmanuel's voice boom through the house. "Carmichael! What the hell is this thing?"

I came out from the sitting room. "It's a Christmas tree, Mr. Thibodeaux."

He pointed at the tree. "What the hell is it doing in my house?"

"Waiting for us to put presents beneath it."

"Get it out of here," he growled. "This is ridiculous."

I rested both hands on my cane. "That's not going to happen. Your grandson needs as much normality as he can get, and that includes Christmas. Not only that, but it's your son's birthday -- your _living son's_ birthday. We're celebrating with or without you."

"We don't pay you for this."

"I know," I said. "Aren't you lucky?"

I went back into the sitting room and let out a slow breath. I was pushing the boundaries of propriety, and I knew it, but then Caleb looked up from his letter and smiled at me. I smiled back, tension lifting. The look on his face was worth any hostility from Emmanuel.

With the tree up and decorated, the rest of the household caught onto the idea. Gifts appeared under the tree daily, wrapped in cheerful red and gold paper. Tumnus sniffed each new addition, and Caleb poked the ones with his name on them hopefully. There were at least five boxes for him from Noel, from small to large, as well as a bag Noel gave me to hide so Santa Claus could put them out on Christmas Eve. Even Emmanuel got into the spirit enough to put a few packages for Caleb under the tree.

As glad as I was that Emmanuel felt generous toward his grandson, I hated knowing he would let Noel's birthday pass unobserved. I wanted the day to be about him, too, in the hope it would comfort him.

Caleb, it seemed, felt something similar. Not long after the tree was up, Caleb got up from coloring on the floor and handed me a picture he had drawn of a birthday cake complete with candles and with UNCLE NOEL written beneath it.

"What's this, little man?" I said, drawing him to me with my arm around his waist, and he pointed to the UNCLE NOEL and looked at me expectantly. "You want to know if we're doing anything for Uncle Noel's birthday?" He nodded, and I leaned my head against his a moment. "Well, that's tough, to be honest. Uncle Noel doesn't seem to want to make much of a fuss over it."

His face fell at that, his toe digging into the rug.

I said, "I think he misses your daddy too much to celebrate his birthday this year. Maybe next year we'll do a cake and sing to him. But this year we can still give him a birthday present or two, I should think. I have one for him. Do you want to find one for him, too?"

Caleb nodded enthusiastically to that, so I opened my current sketchbook and added, "Birthday present for Uncle Noel" to the shopping list I was putting together to him.

I thought that would be the end of it, at least until I took Caleb into the city to shop, but that night at dinner Caleb gave Noel the same picture. Noel unfolded it and raised his eyebrows.

"What's this, Caleb?" He looked at me, as did Caleb, waiting for me to interpret.

I didn't even have to glance at the drawing to know what it was. "He wants to know if we're doing anything for your birthday, too."

Emmanuel snorted. Noel and Caleb both looked at him, Caleb frowning while Noel sighed wearily, and I said before Emmanuel could offer any more of his opinion, "I think we should."

"I don't find it necessary," Noel said. Caleb poked at his food with his fork, and Noel said, "Caleb, when -- it's -- it's hard sometimes for grown-ups to be happy about things that make you happy when you're still small. Does that makes sense?"

Caleb shook his head.

"It's dancing on your mother's grave," Emmanuel said, and all three of us looked at him. He clutched his water goblet tightly. "This entire plan is a disgrace."

I said softly, "From what Mrs. Bell tells me, Miss Fabienne loved Christmas. I think she'd be disappointed to see the day just ignored like this, even if it wasn't also the birthday of her children."

"You don't know anything about it," snapped Emmanuel.

"Probably not," I said, "but I know what my mother was like, and I can extrapolate."

"A socialist," said Emmanuel.

"A humanist," I said. "She experienced the effects of war first-hand, and so she did everything she could to ease other people's suffering. She taught her children to do what we think is right. What I think is right is to give your grandson a happy Christmas and your son a good birthday, and I think your wife would agree with me."

Emmanuel threw down his napkin and got to his feet so fast he knocked over his chair. He stared down at me as if he expected me to flinch.

I stared back. Noel said softly, "Father."

Emmanuel said, biting off each word, "Be glad you're a cripple, Carmichael," and left the table in a huff once again. Noel closed his eyes and sighed, and beside me Caleb was trembling. He slid down from his chair and went around the table, and crawled into Noel's lap. Noel's arms went around him, and he kissed Caleb's hair.

I said, "I'm sorry about that, guys."

Noel shook his head. "It's not your fault. Will you hand me Caleb's plate?"

I passed Caleb's plate to Noel, and the three of us finished our dinner, Caleb still in Noel's lap.

***

The Sunday before Christmas, Noel, Caleb and I went into the city. Our shopping was done; the ingredients for Christmas dinner were purchased; according to Mrs. Bell, Noel had given all of Fidele's employees a holiday bonus, from herself and Willie down to the boys who cut the sugar cane leaves from the stalks before the harvesters came through. (A new technique Alex Christie had brought to the farm, Noel told me. When he was a child, the fields were burned before they were harvested, a piece of knowledge that made me shiver and I wasn't quite sure why.)

Rene had told me about a fairly new tradition that began after the war, that I found so charming I had to see it and convinced Noel and Caleb to come with me. We parked Noel's Jaguar a few blocks from Jackson Square, and with Noel carrying Caleb on his shoulders, joined a large number of people making their way into the Square.

Once we arrived, a woman in a cheerful red-and-green sweater and holly berries in her hair gave us printed sheets of lyrics and unlit candles in safety holders. The square was decorated with Christmas lights -- the entire city was ablaze with light, from the wrought iron balconies to the street cars -- and an enormous Christmas tree, and there were big red bows tied to the street lamps. St. Louis Cathedral glowed in the background, and there was a stand set up at the end of the square, with a band and a podium.

We hadn't gone far when a piping voice shouted, "Caleb! Caleb!" and Samuel Christie ran to us. Caleb tried to climb from Noel's shoulders, and Noel said, "Hold on a second, peanut," and swung Caleb down. The two boys hugged each other in excitement, giggling.

"Merry Christmas!" Samuel said. "Merry Christmas, Caleb! We're all here to sing! Are you going to sing too?"

"We need to find your parents," I said to Samuel, "before they start to worry."

"Hold my hands," Noel said, holding out both of his, so the boys took them and we went looking for Alex and Julia. It wasn't far to go; Julia sat on a park bench with the baby on her knee, and Alex had climbed onto the bench to scan the crowd. He hopped down when he saw us.

"I thought that's why he ran off," Alex said and rubbed Samuel's head. Samuel shook his head under Alex's hand, still smiling widely.

"I want Caleb to sing with us."

"We won't insist that Caleb sing," Noel said. Caleb looked up at him, and Noel said, "Unless you feel inspired to."

Caleb held Noel's trousers and leaned his head against Noel's leg. Noel patted his head with a quiet laugh.

"Oh!" Alex said. "We're supposed to share the light, too. Did you boys get your candles?"

"We're not lit yet." Noel held out his candle, and Alex held his candle to it until the wick caught. Noel made to light mine, but we were interrupted with another shout, this time Rene Gaspard's familiar, "Sarge!"

I spotted him and waved, and he and Angelique made their way to us. "I hoped we'd see you tonight," I said and introduced everyone all around. We lit our candles and huddled close together so we could share sheet music as the leader of the event came to the microphone.

There was little talk -- he told a little history of the event, thanked us for coming, and thanked the sponsors -- and then a soprano came to the microphone and the band leader lifted his wand.

We sang. Hundreds of people, illuminated by the soft light of candle after candle, lifted their voices in song, old carols and beloved favorites. We sang of joy and gratitude and glory; as I looked around, not just at our little group but at everyone around us, a lump came to my throat. My family's approach was that Christmas is about love, showing love, giving love, and I felt such love for everyone around me that I had to stop singing.

A hand nudged mine, and I looked at Noel in surprise as he loosely intertwined our fingers. He smiled at me briefly, and then looked down at the sheet music.

We were singing "The First Noël" when Samuel tugged on Noel's trousers. "Mr. Noel?"

Noel bent low. "Yes, Samuel?"

"Why do they keep saying your name?"

Noel smiled a tiny bit and said, "Noël is the French word for Christmas. I was named Noel because my twin brother and I were born on Christmas Day."

"Oh," Samuel said. He thought about it for a moment, then tugged on Noel's trousers again. "Mr. Noel? Are you going to have a party for your birthday?"

"Not this year," Noel said. Caleb leaned his head against Noel's side, eyes downcast, and Noel stroked his hair. "We're just going to do Christmas this year, peanut."

Caleb looked at me sadly and I patted his shoulder.

The singing went on for about an hour, enough time that eventually I joined Julia on the park bench to rest my leg, and I took the sleeping Jane from her so she could sing with Alex and Samuel. The baby was warm and clean-smelling, bundled into a pink bunting suit, and she only stirred and yawned before falling asleep again on my chest. I continued singing -- humming, really -- and smiled at Noel when he moved to stand at my side, leaving the boys with Julia and Alex, and put his hand on my shoulder.

The event ended as the city officials and sponsor representatives moved with their candles to the exits of the square, and then attendees followed, blowing out their candles as they left the square. There were kisses and handshakes when our friends parted ways, and promises to see each other more over the coming week.

As we walked back to the Jaguar, Caleb dozing on Noel's shoulder, I said to Noel, "Did you have a good time?"

"Yes," Noel said. "I'd heard about this before, but I never thought it was something I'd enjoy." He shrugged. "I'm glad to be wrong."

"I'm glad you came," I said and asked Caleb, "What about you, little man? Did you have fun with Samuel and so many of our friends?"

Caleb nodded and patted my cheek.

Back at the house, Noel gave Mrs. Bell Caleb to put to bed, and we stood in the passage for a moment, looking at each other, before Noel took my face in his hand and whispered, "Thank you," as we leaned our foreheads together.

I whispered, "I -- I want to make you happy."

"I know," he said, "you do," and we kissed, soft and full of longing.

We had to part eventually, Noel with a quiet, "Good night, Malcolm." I watched him go to his wing of the house, and sighed heavily as I shoved my hand through my hair.

Even though I had been standing most of the night, I still went down to the garden for a walk and a smoke. I contemplated as I smoked, wondering if the desire to celebrate Noel was mere selfishness on my part. The last thing I wanted was to remind him of loss.

Our relationship was nothing like my affair with Oliver. That had been easy to hide, since we didn't see each other day to day and arranged our assignations by letter. I had given him gifts without thought, knowing that he would hide them from his wife or find a way to explain them that wouldn't implicate me. It had been a careless, simple kind of love.

This was not. This was ... Not.

Joint finished, I crushed it out and headed back inside. As long as Noel would let me, I thought, I would spoil him and make much of him, but I had to be better at keeping it out of sight.

By now, the house was quiet, most of the lights off, its denizens in bed or soon to be. I went at Caleb's room to check on him. He hadn't gone sleepwalking or left his bed to sleep with Mrs. Bell or Noel for weeks, but I still worried about the dark presence I had seen in his room.

Tonight, Tumnus slept at the foot of Caleb's bed, a sign that Caleb wasn't restless or clingy. A candle burned in his fairy lamp, producing a soft, warm light through its amber glass. I went into his room to blow the candle out, and then stopped in confusion.

The fairy lamp cast faint shadows on the wall -- mine, of course, but there was a second shadow, an impossible shadow, caused by nothing in the room and certainly not by someone sitting on Caleb's bed.

But my breath didn't freeze, my skin didn't prick, my heart didn't race. Tumnus was asleep rather than crouched and hissing as she had been before when strange events occurred. Whatever presence was here -- whoever was watching Caleb sleep -- was safe and comforting, not terrifying, and smelled faintly of vanilla.

I hesitated, then bent and blew the candle out. Caleb shifted and Tumnus raised her head. Her ears twitched and so did her paws, so I scratched her between her ears and murmured to all of them, "Good night, my loves."

The scent of vanilla wafted under my nose. I smiled and went to bed.


	25. A merry little Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> But Caleb is a child. His memories of Christmas are nothing but joyful. He needs at least one day a year where love is paramount and the adults around him can believe in wonder.

The following day was Christmas Eve. To keep Caleb from being underfoot, Noel took him into the city to shop, have lunch, pick up the Bûche de Noël at the bakery, and see a matinee. While they were gone, Mrs. Bell and I finished preparing all the food that we could, so she could spend the day with her family and all we had to do was pop the dishes in the oven at the right temperature and the right time. I finished wrapping presents and put them under the tree, and gave mine to Willie and Mrs. Bell for them to open on Christmas morning. Willie also planned to spend the day with his family, something I had worried Emmanuel would forbid, but apparently there was no question he would be out for the day.

Later in the afternoon, I sat at my desk and went over my list one more time. I had mailed packages to Dad, Duncan, and Mary Kate; I had presents for everyone in the Fidele household and the Christies; I had given gifts to Rene and Angelique, as well as Rene's mother since she was always so welcoming. I had sent cards to everyone else: Archie and other teachers from Goodwin, surviving members of my unit, former colleagues from the school where I taught before the war, old college roommates and friends, my extended family. I had debated long and hard about if I should send anything to Oliver, and what it should be if I did. I finally decided on a card, addressed to his office, and I wrote inside,

_Oliver,_

_May the peace of this season always be with you and those you love._

_Malcolm Carmichael_

It was innocuous enough, I hoped, not to raise Elizabeth's suspicions if she went through his mail.

As for Fidele, Santa Claus would bring Caleb a pile of presents, as well as a stocking's worth of sweets -- a chocolate bar, the cherry-flavored hard candy he seemed to prefer, Tootsie Rolls, chewing gum, an orange for the toe -- enough to indulge him a bit but hopefully not so much he'd get sick to his stomach. There was also a pile of gifts for Noel, most of them "from" Caleb, purchased by me but selected with his approval. There was also a gratifying number under the tree for me.

I was ready. The house was ready. Despite his reluctance, Noel was ready. And Caleb, of course, had been ready for Christmas since the day after Thanksgiving.

Every item ticked off, I shut my notebook, and looked up with a smile when I heard Caleb running up the stairs. He burst into my room and threw himself into my lap, and had to show me the bag of goodies he and Noel had bought.

Noel followed him a moment later, and scooped Caleb up. "Those are supposed to be surprises, peanut!" Caleb squirmed, giggling, and Noel put him down again and gave him a light swat. "Put those in my room. Go on, now." Caleb scampered out, and Noel sat on my bed with a sigh.

"How was it?" I asked.

"Crowded," Noel said. "I usually do most of my shopping the first weekend of December so I can avoid the shops the rest of the month. But he got a few more little things for everyone, including the cat, and he's very happy about that."

"His birthday present to you is in my closet," I said.

Noel dropped his head a moment, then raised it enough to look at me through his lashes. "I really wish you hadn't brought it up, Malcolm."

"He remembered it on his own." Noel huffed and dropped his head again, and I said, "It's like I said, he remembers last year. He must remember that you and Simon had a birthday party during Christmas Day, too."

"I suppose. And I suppose it's important to him because he's a child."

"Children need structure," I said. "Things happening the way they're supposed to makes them feel safe."

"So do you," Noel said unexpectedly, looking at me keenly. "You like routine."

I hadn't thought about it before. I said, "I suppose I do."

Noel nodded, and then sighed again when the front door slammed and Emmanuel bellowed, "Are we eating dinner tonight or what?"

"Tis himself," I said, pushing myself out of my chair. Noel offered his arm, and we went downstairs.

Caleb was so excited he could barely settle down enough to eat. Fortunately there was a radio program about Santa Claus that he wanted to listen to afterward, so he didn't linger, either, and the program was cute. As he listened, Noel and I put out a few finished touches, turned off most of the house lights, and turned on the red and white electric lights on the tree -- no more candles like when I was a child -- which made the vestibule look both festive and serene.

As Noel and I stood side-by-side, looking at the tree, Noel leaned his head on my shoulder. I patted his cheek and would have kissed him, except that Emmanuel was in the house and might have seen.

After a moment of this, Noel lifted his head. "I'll put Caleb to bed. Last year, Grace tried to impress upon him that he can't get up until at least six o'clock, so I'll try that again."

"Did it work?"

"No," Noel said as he started up the stairs, "but it's worth a shot to try again."

I chuckled and relaxed in the nearest armchair, my cane put aside and my legs crossed at the ankle. I would have to draw this, I thought, and maybe even add some color to show the lights -- meaning I would have to get some colored pencils at some point, since I rarely strayed away from plain graphite when I drew.

A package had arrived for me in the day's mail, addressed from Louisville. This concerned me; at most, I had thought I might receive a card from Oliver in exchange for mine, and certainly not a gift. It was a small box, at least, so I hoped it contained nothing more extravagant than a tie pin.

I didn't think of Oliver often anymore. I was too busy, and to be frank, too wrapped up in my concerns for Caleb and Noel to miss an old lover. Of course there were times I missed his touch, but there were times I missed being touched by _anyone_ who wasn't in short pants. A hug from a child, while sweet, was nothing like being in the arms of a lover.

What I miss, I thought, is actual _fucking_. I'd had Noel in my hands, in my mouth, but not inside my body, and sometimes I felt desperate for that singular sensation, the pleasure, the stretch, the burn. That, I thought wryly, was what I missed about Oliver. When I wanted his prick, he had done his damnedest to provide.

These were odd thoughts to have on Christmas Eve while relaxing in the lights of a Christmas tree, but I was having an odd moment, knowing what I could have had in exchange for what I had now. I could have accepted Oliver's offer of a house of my own; I could have tried my hand at being a professional cartoonist, with Oliver as my patron until I could support myself. All I'd have to give up was my independence and my pride.

As this gloomy thought crossed my mind, I heard Noel's footsteps on the stair from the nursery wing, and he paused halfway down, gazing at me. I gazed back. Neither of us spoke. He continued down the stairs and joined me in the armchair at my side, and said softly, "You look like you just got some bad news."

"Only about myself," I said. He cocked a quizzical eyebrow, and I combed my fingers through his hair. "But there's good news, too. A glimmer of hope."

That got another of Noel's mostly-in-the-eyes smiles, and he leaned against the armchair so I could continue stroking his hair.

I said, "Did you finally get Caleb to sleep?"

"I got him into his bed, anyway. I had to remind him Santa Claus only comes if the children in the house are asleep, and I read him 'A Visit From St. Nicholas' as a bedtime story. We may still be woken before dawn, but there are worse things."

"We probably ought to get to bed ourselves, if tomorrow is going to be an early day."

"Yes," Noel murmured, not moving as his eyelids grew heavier, and I smiled.

"Up, my dear," I said softly. "I can't put you to bed, as much as I'd like to."

His eyes opened, and he gave me a look that made me tremble and wish I _could_ sweep him up and carry him off. He took my hand and pressed my wrist to his mouth, hard, as if he intended to bite in; and then let it drop and got to his feet. "Good night, Malcolm," he said and once more headed for the stairs.

"Good night, Noel," I said. "Merry Christmas."

He stiffened for a moment, then said, "Merry Christmas," over his shoulder.

I didn't mind. He had his reasons.

Still, it was a long time before I went to bed myself; not just to put the presents out from Santa Claus, but to watch the night for a while and think.

There are things that deserve patience. There are things worth sacrificing for. I had them, and I knew their value. My own desires could wait.

***

I hadn't been awakened by the excited patter of little feet on Christmas morning since Duncan was a child; nonetheless, I recognized the sound when Caleb came running down the passage from the nursery. He threw open the door and I said, "Caleb, it's so _early_ ," as he climbed onto my bed. He pointed to the clock, bouncing on the thick featherbed; the hands were pointing exactly up and down. Six o'clock, just like Noel had said.

"All right," I said, "give me a minute." I pushed the coverlet aside and maneuvered myself out of bed, picked up my cane and pulled on a dressing gown; Caleb jumped on the bed until I started with the dressing gown, when he climbed off the bed and danced in circles around me.

"You're acting like you've had too much candy already," I said, to which he grabbed my hand and tugged me along. "Let's see if Santa came last night."

I had left the lights on during the night so it would look pretty when we woke, knowing it would only be a few hours; and in the dark vestibule the tree looked absolutely magical.

Near the bottom of the staircase, Caleb released my hand and ran to the toys Santa Claus had left for him. He stopped and boggled at it all -- the bicycle, the toy trucks, the play sets, the stocking full of candy. He turned to me, his eyes wide.

I said, "You've been a very good boy this year," and he ran to me and hugged me around the waist. I patted his hair, marveling at how much he'd grown in just the few months I'd been there. He was going to be as tall as Noel in no time at all. "Why don't you get Uncle Noel, and we'll open our presents together?"

He nodded and tore up the stairs to Noel's wing. As I got comfortable in the armchair, he woke Noel and they came downstairs, Noel carrying Caleb, who was swinging his feet with excitement.

"G'morning," Noel said with a yawn. "Santa came, I see."

"Good morning," I replied. "That he did." Noel put Caleb down and Caleb ran to his toys, and then danced from foot to foot uncertainly, and looked at Noel for guidance.

"Whichever one you want to play with first, peanut," Noel said. Caleb bit his lip a moment, and then picked up the one of the toy trucks and began to run it back and forth on the carpet.

While Caleb played, I went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee; once it was brewed Noel helped me bring it, a glass of orange juice for Caleb, and the basket of biscuits Mrs. Bell had left behind, into the vestibule. We had just settled into eat a little breakfast when we heard Emmanuel's bedroom door open. Caleb froze and Noel tensed, and I said, "Shall we see if Grandfather would like some breakfast too before we start unwrapping presents?"

"I think we should," Noel said calmly, and Caleb nodded slowly too, clutching his juice glass with both hands.

Emmanuel reached the bottom of the stairs and paused. I said, "Merry Christmas, Mr. Thibodeaux. Would you like some coffee and a biscuit? We'll have a proper breakfast later."

His gaze swept over us, and I wondered if he realized what he had been missing all those years when he forbade even a hint of Christmas in this house; or if, like Ebenezer Scrooge, he would still greet Christmas with a, "Bah! Humbug!"

He said, "Yes, thank you," and made his way to one of the empty armchairs. Noel and Caleb watched him cautiously, and he said, once he was sitting, "What? Can't I watch my grandson open his gifts?"

"Of course, Father," Noel murmured, and got up to pour some coffee from the service and bring him a cup, with a biscuit on the saucer. Emmanuel took it without a word.

"We'll start unwrapping once Caleb has finished his juice," I said.

"Some Christmas custom of yours, I suppose, Carmichael," Emmanuel said.

"Not really," I said.

Noel said softly, "It was Grace and Simon's rule. No unwrapping until after breakfast."

Emmanuel snorted, but didn't say anything more about it.

Caleb and Noel took turns handing out the gifts. Most of them were for Caleb, of course; a good dozen were for Noel; much to my surprise -- and Emmanuel's -- they'd both gotten gifts for Emmanuel, too. And for me, which I hadn't really expected, but it was nice to receive. There were gifts for me from my family, and from Mary Kate and Dad for Caleb, and Mary Kate had sent one for Noel, just as she mentioned she would. Noel smiled at this, and told me, "I sent the Talbots something for Rosemary, but I didn't expect this."

"Well, she's good at presents and she knows it," I said, and he quietly laughed.

Noel was pleased with the leather briefcase I had found for him, as well as the many little things Caleb and I had selected for him: tie pins, leather holders for his many legal pads, a bottle of ink for his favorite fountain pen. My presents from Caleb and Noel were more sketchbooks in my preferred size, Faber pencils and pastels, and a leather folio with loops for pencils and a slot to hold a sketchbook in place. "It's almost as if you planned it," I said.

"Sheer luck," Noel said lightly, and they exchanged grins.

Oliver's gift to me was a Waterman fountain pen, with a broad point and a body that was heavy in the hand, an expensive and beautiful gift that I doubted I would ever use. I drew and wrote in pencil. Still, it was nice to know he'd thought of me, even if I was sure he'd simply put my name on a list for his secretary.

The biggest surprise of the day, though, the large package for Caleb from Emmanuel, which Caleb unwrapped slowly, and then his eyes grew wide with wonder when he saw what it contained. The gift was a doll dressed as a knight in moulded armor, complete with a lance and fleur-de-lis shield, and mounted on a toy horse; the two of them together were almost as tall as Caleb.

"That's beautiful, Mr. Thibodeaux," I said softly, just as astounded as Caleb, and Noel made an affirming sound and looked out the nearest window, blinking hard.

Emmanuel cleared his throat gruffly. "Yes, well. Nothing's too good for my grandson."

Caleb put the knight on his horse carefully, and then came to Emmanuel. He hesitated, then hugged Emmanuel.

Emmanuel patted his back a few times. "That's enough, now."

Caleb kissed his cheek and stepped away from him. He took the knight in his arms again and hugged him, too, a look of perfect bliss on his face; and then he went to Noel and climbed on his knee, and Noel hugged him tight, too, and murmured, "We'll have to think of names for this fellow and his horse."

Once there was nothing left but torn wrapping paper and candy, Emmanuel made another of his gruff sounds and left the vestibule. "I suppose that's as close as we'll get to a 'Merry Christmas' from him," I said to Noel.

"It's better than anything else he's said," Noel replied. "I'll take it."

***

Christmas Day was a quiet one. Emmanuel left for who-knows-where once the presents were unwrapped -- several hotels in the city offered Christmas Day meals, and I supposed he'd rather eat with strangers than spend more time with us -- and the rest of us had second breakfast like hobbits out of one of Caleb's books. We'd have a late lunch, Noel and I had previously decided, and eat our Christmas dinner around seven.

Mid-morning, the Christies came over so Samuel and Caleb could play together and we could exchange more gifts. We had lunch together -- at first Alex said, oh no, they could't impose, but Noel said, "It's not an imposition, as long as you don't mind it's rather plain," so they decided to stay. It was merely cold cut sandwiches on homemade bread, but it saved Julia cooking another meal, and we were rather merry around the table despite the simplicity of the meal. Noel offered to have them for supper, too, since we had plenty of food, but they had plans with Alex's family that evening and had to decline.

Caleb had slept so little the night before and gotten up so early that he was drooping after lunch, so once the Christies left Noel said, "Let's read, Caleb," and they curled up together on one of the sofas with a book. Caleb was asleep almost as soon as Noel read the first page, and Noel dozed off not long after, the book still open and Caleb cradled in his arm.

I took one of my new sketchbooks and pencils, and drew them as they slept, their heads inclined together and Tumnus purring at Noel's side.

There were a great many things I liked about Noel, but the biggest one, I realized as I drew, was his devotion to Caleb. Many uncles in his situation might send a child away to a school -- if I were left to raise Rosemary or Zoë, I might not be able to provide a good home for them, for example -- but not Noel Thibodeaux. He had left his own beloved house, compromised many aspects of his profession, lived with a man he loathed, all so he could raise Caleb to the best of his ability.

He wasn't perfect. What he _was_ , was patient and caring, and willing to acknowledge when he made a mistake. I knew few parents who were perfect, and certainly few who were willing to do such a small and important thing as acknowledging when they were wrong.

Even when the time came for me to leave them -- and at the time I was certain that day would come eventually, whether I wanted it to or not -- I was not worried about Caleb's happiness. Noel would put that first, always.

The thought didn't even make me melancholy anymore.

Eventually Noel stirred and woke, and rubbed his eyes as he smiled at me sheepishly. "Sorry. I was more tired than I thought."

"I don't mind," I said and turned the sketchbook so he could see what I'd drawn. "My favorite models."

"Well," he said softly, "isn't that fine." We exchanged a hungry look -- except for Caleb, we were alone in the house -- but when he made to get off the sofa both Caleb and Tumnus woke, and the moment was gone.

***

The plan was for Willie to bring Mrs. Bell home once their family celebrations were finished; and sure enough, a few hours after we had eaten and cleaned up our own supper I heard the truck pull into the carriage house. Noel was putting Caleb to bed and Emmanuel was still out, so I went to meet them and see if there was anything I could help carry. Both of them had grocery bags full of gifts from their families and leftovers wrapped in tinfoil; I took a bag of food and carried it to the kitchen for Mrs. Bell.

"Did you have a good Christmas?" I asked her.

"Oh, it was fine, Mr. Malcolm. Just fine. Plenty of food and plenty of togetherness."

"I always like seeing the next generation coming up," put in Willie. "Your family have grandchildren yet, Mr. Malcolm?"

"Two," I said. "Both girls. My oldest brother's daughter is Zoë, and my sister's little girl is Rosemary."

"And she's the little one who'll be coming next week," Mrs. Bell said.

"That's right."

"And what about the big house?" Willie said, with an awkward little twitch of his shoulder. "Was it a good day here?"

"I think we did all right," I said. "There wasn't any yelling, and Emmanuel even got Caleb some toys."

We were in the kitchen by then, and started putting away their leftovers -- sweet potato pie, greens, roasted turkey -- with the leftovers from Fidele's dinner. Willie said, "Well, he has his reasons for disliking the day."

"I know," I said, "it's what he does with that dislike that I disapprove of."

They exchanged glances, and Mrs. Bell said, "That's just his way, Mr. Malcolm."

"I still disapprove," I said, but there was nothing I could say at this point to get them to agree, whether they actually did or not, and I didn't want to press them about it. I wished them Merry Christmas again, and went upstairs.

I checked on Caleb. He was asleep, cheeks flushed, eyelashes twitching on his cheeks, fairy lamp lit, Tumnus in her basket, the knight doll under Caleb's arm. No extra shadows tonight.

I blew out in the candle in the fairy lamp and went to Noel's room next. As I thought he would be, he was still awake -- sitting on the edge of his bed with his head down, his shoes off but still in his jeans and button-down shirt as if he'd run out of energy before he ran out of clothes.

I rapped on his door softly with my knuckles. He looked up, inhaling, and then smiled as his shoulder relaxed. "Malcolm."

"Noel. Got a few minutes?"

"Of course," he said, and I smiled too and came into his bedroom, leaving the door open.

"Did you have a good Christmas?" I said as I sat by his side.

"I did," he said in a tone of faint surprise. "Did you? Did it come off the way you hoped?"

"It was a good day," I said. "I'm pleased with how it turned out."

He nodded, looking down at his feet again. Caleb had given him his birthday present during supper, and while we had not put candles in the Bûche de Noël, we still treated it like his birthday cake.

"I have one more thing for you," I said as I took a small package out of my jacket pocket; instead of the merry red-and-gold paper our Christmas gifts had been wrapped in, this one was wrapped in plain white paper and tied with a blue ribbon.

Noel started shaking his head the moment he saw the package. "Malcolm, you've already done so much."

"This isn't for Christmas." I held out the package for him to take. "This is your birthday present."

"Malcolm," he said again, but took the gift and pulled off the ribbon and paper. Inside was a simple flat jewelry box, which caused him to raise an eyebrow at me; he opened it, and then looked down at the gift, perplexed. Inside was a silver Mercury dime, hung from a red leather cord.

"I asked Rene for advice," I said, "on something to help you feel safe in this house. He said one of these would protect you from anything malicious that might glance your way." I added when Noel still didn't speak, "I didn't want to give it to you in front of Emmanuel."

"No, that makes sense," Noel murmured. He looked up and started to speak -- and then instead kissed me, hard, his hand on the back of my neck.

"Happy birthday, Noel," I whispered. "I'm glad you're in the world."

"Thank you," he whispered back, and we leaned our foreheads together. He said, in that slow way he tended to use when talking about his past, "I never wanted to make a fuss over my birthday after -- after what happened. I didn't for years, not until Simon and Grace were married -- and then since they were celebrating Simon's of course they wanted to celebrate mine, too. I think it was mostly Grace's idea. Simon didn't celebrate his birthday much, either, at least not that he told me about. But Grace was like you -- she wanted people to feel loved."

I blinked at that, and then put my arms around his neck and kissed him. Noel kissed me back -- fervent, his hands sliding over my back, into my hair, down my chest -- and when we parted, breathing hard, I stroked his face with both hands and fought against the desire to pull him onto me and let events run their course. I wanted to beg him to let me stay the night; I knew he would say no for so many reasons, so I didn't ask. Instead we kissed, aching for each other, until we heard the Packard come up the drive.

I forced myself away from Noel then, and got to my feet. Noel ran his hand over his face and let out a deep breath. He whispered, "Malcolm," in a voice that made me want to drop to my knees at his feet.

I cleared my throat. "Good night, Noel."

He nodded, again his head lowered. "Good night, Malcolm. See you in the morning."

"See you," I said. It gave me something to look forward to, at least.

Instead of going to bed, I left the house and went to the garden. The night air calmed me down, and I needed to be calm. The day had gone well -- no yelling, to slapping, no confrontations -- and I knew Caleb had gone to bed happy. Noel was going to bed knowing that I had done everything I could think of for him -- feeling, I thought, loved.

It was that word that unsettled me. I loved Caleb, but it's easy to love a child. I had loved a lot of children over the years, or at least felt affection and fondness toward them. Sometimes I had thought I could love Oliver, had circumstances been different.

I did not want to call what I felt for Noel "love." Perhaps it was a stubbornness on my part; perhaps I was protecting a part of me that wasn't ready to be exposed to such emotions again. But knowing that Noel felt loved today give me a warm and gentle thrill, something I hadn't felt since -- well, for a long time.

I was startled out of my thoughts by other footsteps, and in a few moments I saw Emmanuel on the path, smoking a cigar.

"Mr. Thibodeaux," I said so that I wouldn't shock him, and he paused and squinted in my direction.

"Oh, it's you, Carmichael."

"Yes, sir. Did you have a pleasant day?"

He snorted and puffed on his cigar as he leaned against the nearest retaining wall. I supposed that was as close to a "yes" as I would get, and wished I had something other than the joint in my pocket to smoke.

After a few minutes of silence, I said, "Thank you for making Caleb's Christmas better."

He tapped ashes into the nearest rosebush. He said, soft enough I didn't think he intended for me to hear, "He's a good boy."

I said, soft too, "He is. He's a great kid."

I hoped Emmanuel might say more -- maybe even express some regret about the way he had neglected and abused Noel and Simon when they were Caleb's age -- but he only crushed out the cigar and said shortly, "You stomping around keeps me awake nights," before heading into the house.

I sighed, and thought, _So much for regrets,_ and soon went into the house myself.


	26. A Thin Time of Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> There are things that deserve patience. There are things worth sacrificing for. I had them, and I knew their value. My own desires could wait.

Two days after Christmas found me pacing up and down the vestibule and watching the front drive. Mary Kate had written to me that they planned to leave for Louisiana the day after Christmas, and make the drive at a leisurely pace so they could visit some tourist spots, so I knew not to expect them until late afternoon or sometime in the evening. Still, I began watching for them as soon as Caleb went down for his afternoon nap.

Finally Noel put his hands on my shoulders and said, "Malcolm, stop. You're making me nervous. They'll get here soon."

"I know." I leaned back against him, and he slid his hands down so he could hold me around my chest. I tipped back my head so my temple touched his cheek. "I gave them directions, but it's so easy to drive into the bayou before you even realize it if you're not used to the conditions around here, and it'll be dark before you know it, and they've got the baby with them--"

"What a sweet older brother you are," Noel murmured and kissed my neck. I inhaled, surprised, and then closed my eyes as warmth washed through me. Emmanuel was out, as had become his habit over the holidays, but even so Noel rarely took risks like this. I welcomed any touch he felt secure enough to give.

We both looked up as we heard a car coming up the drive. It was not the Packard, thankfully, but the Talbot's sedan. "They're here!" I grabbed Noel's hand and we went down the front steps.

As soon as George brought the car to a stop, Mary Kate hopped out and threw her arms around me. I hugged her back as hard as I could. There had been longer absences from each other, of course, but given everything that had happened this year it felt like it had been an age and a half.

Once I let her go, Mary Kate hugged Noel, too. "Hello, friend," she said, and he chuckled and replied, "Hello, friend."

George got out of the car as well and we shook hands all around, and there was small talk about the drive and the baby as Mary Kate got Rosemary out of her car-crib in the back seat and George and Noel took their baggage from the trunk.

"When do we meet Himself?" Mary Kate murmured to me as we climbed the front steps.

"Whenever he deigns to appear," I said. "He's been spending the day in the city." Much to the relief of Noel and Caleb — and to me, it must be said.

Mrs. Bell met us in the vestibule. Her expression softened a bit when Noel introduced them, and she said, "Mrs. Talbot, let's get your things upstairs so you can settle in."

George and Noel carried most of the luggage as I hauled myself up the stairs, one bag dangling from my elbow, and Mary Kate and Mrs. Bell followed along behind with Rosemary and armloads of her various bags. "Do you climb these stairs every day, Mal?" Mary Kate asked me.

"Several times," I said. "It's keeping me limber."

"Hm," Mary Kate said, eyebrows puckering.

"I also take care of a five-year-old for several hours a day," I said. "You've taught kids that age. You know how energetic they can be."

"Yes, I know."

"You're a teacher too, Mrs. Talbot?" Mrs. Bell asked her.

"I taught at an elementary school in San Francisco before I got married," Mary Kate said, "and one in Chicago after, until Rosie was born."

"Our parents ran their own school for a long time," I said. "I don't believe I've told you about that before."

"I don't believe you have, Mr. Malcolm."

"Our brother Zachary taught too, before the war," Mary Kate said. "Though he taught high school, like Mal did."

"He'd decided to go to med school when the war was over," I said. "But that didn't happen, of course. The only one of us who hasn't gone into teaching is the youngest, Duncan. He's studying city planning."

"Urban design," Mary Kate corrected.

"Making things," I said and grinned at her.

She grinned back. "Planning to make things."

"Oh, God," said George, and said to Noel, "The Carmichaels think they're hilarious. The best thing to do is just let them think so."

"I'll keep that in mind," Noel said, with an amused look back to me, and I grinned at him, too.

Noel put them in a guest room near his own, and Mary Kate and I began unpacking as we continued chatting and teasing each other. Mrs. Bell slipped away to start preparing supper, and after Noel and George went downstairs to get the rest of the luggage, Mary Kate said to me, "I will get her to call me by my first name before we leave."

"Don't count on it," I said. "The only person she doesn't use an honorific with is Caleb. I think it's just a southern thing."

"I think it's a 'leftover from the antebellum days' thing," Mary Kate replied mildly.

"If you meet the Christies while you're here, their little boy will call you Miss Mary Kate," I said.

"But that's respecting one's elders," Mary Kate said, "and very cute. I'm happy to call Mrs. Bell 'Mrs. Bell,' but she doesn't need to call me 'Mrs. Talbot.'" She folded one of Rosemary's little dresses, looking fretful.

"Think of it as mutual respect," I said. "You call her Missus, she calls you Missus." Rosemary, who had been hitching herself along the floor while the grown-ups talked, came to the armchair where I was sitting and hauled herself up to her feet. She put her hand on my knee, beaming up at me. "Hello, Miss Rosie. What do you think of this place?" Rosemary babbled back at me, and I said, "Oh, indeed, you're right. You're so wise."

"Also cute," Mary Kate said.

"What's cute?" said George as he came back into the room, carrying a large canvas bag with the pieces of Rosemary's travel crib. Noel followed him with the last of the suitcases, and smiled at Rosemary, who was now using the bureau to guide herself around the room.

"When children call their elders Miss or Mister before their first name," Mary Kate said. "Or when adults call children Miss or Mister. I'm not so fond of it when it's one adult to another."

George stooped to kiss her hair. "You're not going to change the world in a day, sweetheart."

"I've never called Mrs. Bell by her first name alone," Noel said and sat on the armrest of my chair. My hand went to his back. "She was Miss Leila before she was married, and Mrs. Bell since."

"Leila," Mary Kate said, like she was tasting it. "That's a beautiful name. But you called her 'Miss' even when you were a child?"

"Of course. That's how things were done."

I said softly, "You hate how things were done."

"Well," Noel said, "I'm older now."

I smiled and stroked his back.

Caleb appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and frowning. In the bustle of the Talbots arriving, we’d let him sleep too long. "Hey, peanut," Noel said, rising from the armrest, and he picked Caleb up and smoothed down his hair, spiky from sleep. "Malcolm's sister and her family are here. Everybody, this is Caleb."

Mary Kate picked up Rosemary and brought her over. The baby held onto Mary Kate's blouse and goggled at Caleb, and Caleb studied her with a faint frown. Mary Kate said gently, "Hi, Caleb. I'm Mary Kate, and this is Rosemary. We call her Rosie. And this is my husband, George," she added when George joined them, and George smiled too, his hand on Mary Kate's shoulder.

Caleb just lay his head on Noel's shoulder, and Noel patted his back. "We can talk more later," he said. "Do you want help with anything, George? Like setting up the crib?"

"It's pretty easy -- it just snaps together."

"Then we'll leave you to unpack and get settled." He smiled at them all, still patting Caleb's back, and carried him out. I pushed myself up and gave Mary Kate and Rosemary more kisses on their cheeks before I also left the room.

***

As excited as I was to have the Talbots at Fidele, suppertime worried me. Noel and I had discussed the Talbots' visit during supper just the night before, mostly to remind Caleb there would be new people in the house, but while Emmanuel said nothing to object to the visit since we first brought it up, he still scowled and grunted to show his displeasure. I could only hope Emmanuel wouldn't do or say something to make my family feel unwelcome.

It was, I supposed, presumptuous of me to have them visit at all; if the Thibodeauxes had been any other kind of employers, it never would have been a prospect at all. I hadn't invited anyone to stay a weekend at Goodwin, for instance. But Noel liked Mary Kate and George, and they liked him, and it seemed to me the purpose of the visit was to see him again, not only me.

There was still a few hours until sunset by the time the Talbots had everything unpacked and the crib set up, so Noel proposed we take a walk and show the Talbots the grounds. After a stroll through the gardens and past the nearest sugar cane fields, we stopped at one of the resting fields, where we could just view the iron fence of the cemetery through the trees. Noel spread out a blanket for Rosemary to play on and where the adults could lounge. Caleb chased butterflies through the tall grass while Rosemary kicked her heels and squealed.

Mary Kate said as we all watched Caleb play, "What's the story with this seance you're planning?"

"Fidele is haunted," I said simply. "We need to figure out who the ghost is -- ghosts are -- and what they want."

"Ghosts," said George. "Oh, boy."

Noel said quietly, "My brother and I have seen, heard, or felt the family ghost since we were children. It's time to do something, for Caleb's sake." He glanced at me. "And Malcolm's."

"Noel --"

"Show them the scratches."

I sighed, but pulled up my shirt so they could see the latest set of scratches across my stomach. Mary Kate gasped, and George stared at them like he'd never seen anything like it. "She doesn't like me much."

"Oh, God, Malcolm," Mary Kate said. "Are you sure that's a ghost doing that to you?"

"I'm sure. I wake up with new scratches a few times a week. Sometimes they're deep, sometimes they're shallow, but as soon as one set heals another takes its place."

"You used to sleepwalk," Mary Kate argued. "You could be sleepwalking again--"

"Cane," I said. I glanced at Noel -- I hadn't told him this yet, but now seemed like the time. "I've woken up out of bed a few times, just a few steps away, but as soon as I wake up I fall. I can't go far in my sleep, not more than a few steps, and not far enough to where I'd do something like this, or be near something that could do this."

Noel said, "I get scratched too, though not as frequently. It's not an accident, Mary Kate. It's -- it's her."

Mary Kate shivered and picked up Rosemary, and kissed her head. "So the seance is to ... learn more?"

"That's the idea," I said.

"She's frightened Caleb," Noel said. "I want answers. Malcolm thinks if we know more about who she is and what she wants, we might be able to get her to leave."

"Though Angelique warned us we may not get the answers we want," I said.

"Does she do this for a living?" George said.

"She's not a professional medium, no," I said. "She teaches first grade at one of the elementary schools in the city. I think most of her friends and family don't take her abilities too seriously. I'm surprised Rene does, to be honest, but he just -- rolls with it. He's always been that way, for as long as I've known him."

George and Mary Kate looked at each other, and George gave a small shrug with a wry look. Mary Kate said, "I want to participate, but if she says I have to leave because I'm a skeptic I won't be surprised."

"Me too," said George. "I'm curious about how this will all play out."

Caleb ran over to us with a handful of autumn wildflowers, which he presented to Mary Kate. "Why, thank you, Caleb!" she said as she took them, and he beamed and hopped around the blanket with pleasure. Mary Kate started weaving the stems together to make a flowery circlet.

"Caleb will stay with the Christies that night," Noel said, and when Caleb threw himself against Noel's back, his arms around Noel's neck, Noel held his hands. "We haven't told Emmanuel about this particular plan. To be honest, I've been hoping we won't have to involve him at all."

"And if he finds out?" said Mary Kate.

"Then ... we'll beg forgiveness," Noel said with a glance at me. I looked away and plucked a piece of long grass to see if I could make it whistle.

My nerves only increased as we went back inside, washed up, and gathered around the table for supper. Emmanuel had returned while we were in the garden, and watched us from the head of the table with an unreadable expression -- though one eyebrow raised as George strapped a booster seat into one of the chairs for Rosemary and then sat on one side of the baby while Mary Kate sat on the other. We'd rearranged seating all around -- Noel usually sat to one side of Emmanuel while I sat on the other, but today Noel put Caleb between us on the right side of the table while the Talbots sat on the left.

Conversation stayed simple, remarking on the food and asking for the salt, as we filled our plates and settled in. Then Mary Kate took a deep breath and said, "I understand you're a judge, Mr. Thibodeaux."

He looked up from his plate, still chewing his chicken, and gave a slight nod.

"That must be fascinating. George covered the police beat when he started as a reporter, before the war."

Emmanuel swallowed, deliberately wiped his mouth with his napkin, and said, "It's not like being in the police, Mrs. Talbot."

"Oh, no, of course not. Much less legwork. But it's still law enforcement, and that's important work. The decisions you make every day affect hundreds of people -- not just the criminal or the victim, but their families, their children. Our mother used to be on a committee that helped women whose husbands were incarcerated to find work. They ran a little school for their children to spend the day while their mothers were working, for instance."

Emmanuel had a drink of wine, expressionless. Beside me, Caleb slowly ate as he watched Mary Kate, and Noel didn't look at anyone at all. The only person who wasn't tense, it seemed, was Rosemary, who babbled to herself as she ate graham crackers and slices of apple.

Mary Kate widened her eyes at me, and I did the same in response, not sure what she was trying to do here. From the look on her face, she would have kicked me under the table if she could. "Prison reform is a worthwhile cause, of course," she said. "I still think so. And police corruption is still a going concern in Chicago."

"Oh?" Emmanuel said in an entirely neutral tone.

"I just find law enforcement interesting," Mary Kate said. "I sometimes think if I'd been a man I would have entered the police force, myself."

"What a loss to the police that you were not," Emmanuel said.

"Exactly! So when I think about future plans -- Rosie's not always going to be a baby, after all -- I think maybe I could do something like practice law and be a defense lawyer."

I looked at George, surprised, and he shrugged a little. This was not news to him.

"And then," Mary Kate went on doggedly, "eventually, maybe, become a judge too. After I've been a lawyer for a while, of course. So," she took another deep breath, "I was hoping I could talk to you about it -- about what it's like to be a judge."

Emmanuel had another deliberate drink of wine. He said, "Know the law. Enforce the law. That's all there is to it."

"But what about things like circumstances and compassionate sentencing?" Mary Kate said. "How do you decide when to take things like the accused family situation into consideration?"

"Young lady," Emmanuel said, "I understand your family is trying to save the world single-handedly. If you want to be a judge in any court of law, your idealism will have to take a back seat. If it doesn't, you will only end up disappointed over and over as the worst of humanity parades in front of you. Now," he picked up his knife and fork, "may I eat my supper in peace?"

"Of course," Mary Kate murmured and picked up her water goblet.

She may have found the conversation a disappointment, but these were more words than I had heard from Emmanuel at one time for weeks -- and I may have been the only one to see it, but there was a slight smile on his mouth.

***

Over the next few days, I took the Talbots into the city so they could see the decorations and the more storied locations, including the 4/4 Club with Noel and Caleb. Eula was so happy to see Caleb that she kissed both his cheeks and carried him on her hip for most of the visit, while George and Mary kate talked jazz with the band and Noel went over the books with Cozy, looking up sometimes to just smile as he watched us.

"Malcolm sings," I heard Mary Kate say at one point, and the entire staff looked at me. "You should ask him to fill in sometime. He used to go to jazz clubs in California whenever he could."

I shrugged. "That was before the war."

"You can still sing, dopey," Mary Kate said.

I held up my hands. "I politely decline."

With a sigh, she went back to talking to Eula. Noel's gaze stayed on me for a few minutes more.

The 4/4 and several other clubs, bars, and hotels, were having New Year's Eve parties, but we declined all invitations. We had other plans.

According to Willie, every year Emmanuel attended one of these parties and wasn't home until two or three in the morning. We would take Caleb to the Christies' in the afternoon, and Rene and Angelique would arrive around nine; we would eat a late supper and begin the seance around midnight. If we timed things right, Emmanuel would only think we'd had a small house party for the New Year, and never suspect we'd tried to talk to the family ghosts.

As for what would happen in his absence, I couldn't begin to guess. Maybe nothing -- maybe the spirits of Fidele would keep to themselves. But everything I had experienced so far told me they wanted to be heard. We might not like what they had to say, but we would give them a chance to say it.

We spent the day of New Year's Eve quietly. Caleb was excited that he would be allowed to sleep at Samuel's house and to stay up until midnight, but all of the adults were merely waiting for night to fall.

I went with Noel to drive Caleb to the Christies', and on the way back asked him, "Are you having any second thoughts?"

"No," Noel said, keeping his eyes on the road. "It feels like -- like knowing someone who knows a secret is biding their time to tell it. Don't you think so?"

"Yes. That's exactly what this feels like." Like a curtain to open, or the other shoe to drop.

Willie took Emmanuel into the city around seven. Noel had given Mrs. Bell the night off, so Mary Kate and I cooked stew and biscuits for supper while we waited for Rene and Angelique to arrive. They did at the appointed time -- to my surprise, with Dorian Mayeux in tow -- with more introductions and handshakes all around, and we sat down to eat. We ate in the kitchen today -- we planned to use the dining room for the seance, and it was easier to talk to each other around the smaller kitchen table.

"How did you get involved in all of this?" Mary Kate asked Angelique once all the dishes were passed around and our bowls were filled.

"I've always had the sight," Angelique said. "My mother says I would talk about playing with Auntie Gwen when I was tiny -- her sister Gwen, who died when she was four of diphtheria."

"That must have been frightening for her," Mary Kate said.

"She told me not to tell other people about Auntie Gwen," said Angelique. "Or that I knew people's secrets, like who was carrying on with whom or who'd had a miscarriage or who'd lost money gambling and how much."

"That could be a powerful ability, in the wrong hands," Mary Kate observed.

Angelique spread her hands open. "I try to keep my hands the right ones."

Rene patted her back, looking proud. "She's a good girl, ma belle."

She kissed his cheek. "I try, the same as anyone else."

I felt Noel's gaze on my face and glanced at him with a small smile -- noticing that Dorian was smiling too, though his face was obscured by his water goblet.

Dinner eaten and cleaned up, George took the baby upstairs and the rest of us set up for the seance in the vestibule. We removed the leaves from the dining room table to make it from an oval to a circle, set up thechairs around it and candles in the middle, and turned off all of the electric lights.

Dorian had brought a reel-to-reel tape recorder, which he set up while the rest of us were occupied. We hadn't really talked since Halloween -- he had not come to the Gaspards' Thanksgiving dinner -- and aside from a few mentions in passing from Angelique, I had no idea what was going on in his life.

I was approaching him to talk when George came into the dining room. "Rosie's asleep."

"This is ready," Angelique said. "Let's gather 'round. Malcolm, will you sit next to me?"

We sat around the table -- seven of us, I noticed, and it seemed to me this number was intentional -- with me at Angelique's left hand and Dorian at her right, where he could monitor the reel-to-reel. Noel quickly took the chair at my left, and Mary Kate repressed a smile as she sat between George and Rene.

Along with the candles, Angelique had placed a plate of fresh bread, a bowl of the stew we'd had for supper, and a vase of roses on the table, and also a ouija board, which she placed in front of me. "Since you already have a connection with the spirits here, would you be willing to accept their communication?"

"I will," I said.

"We'll hold hands at first," Angelique said. "Once we've made contact, place your right hand on the planchette.Don't push it or tap it -- just let it move under your fingers. Dorian will take notes, and we've got the tape recorder to keep a record."

"Do you expect to hear anything on the tape?" asked George.

"Sometimes we do," Rene said. "The tape recorder will catch things our ears can't."

"Spiritualists call it 'electronic voice phenomenon,'" said Dorian. "It's harder to fake than a photograph, like fraudulent mediums used to do in Victorian times."

"We'll invite the spirits in this house to communicate with us," Angelique said. "We'll ask for a sign that they've joined us, so listen for any unusual sounds or watch for any usual sights." Thunder rumbled outside and lightning flashed, and we all glanced up, silent until the thunder stopped. "I suppose we'll discount that as a signal. Dorian, will you start the tape recorder? We'll go around the table and introduce ourselves, to have a record of our voices."

Dorian pressed the record buttons on the reel-to-reel. "December thirty-first, 1951, at 11:39 p.m.," he said. "Our location is the plantation house Fidele, New Orleans, Louisiana. I am Dorian Mayeux."

"Angelique Breaux," said Angelique.

"Malcolm Carmichael."

"Noel Thibodeaux."

"George Talbot."

"Mary Kate Talbot."

"Rene Gaspard."

"Join hands," Angelique said now that we had named ourselves, so we did. "Close your eyes. I'll start with a prayer." We closed our eyes. Noel's hand tightened around mine as Angelique recited a prayer of protection to Saint Michael. She finished with, "Spirits of this house, we invite you to speak with us. Show us a sign that you have joined our circle." She added softly, "Open your eyes."

We opened our eyes. I looked at Mary Kate, whose expression was expectant, her eyes wide.

A piano chord sounded from the music room, loud enough to make us all jump. Angelique took a deep breath. "Spirits of this house, would you like to speak with us?" She let go of my right hand, and I placed it on the planchet. It was smooth and cool under in my fingers.

"Spirits of this house," Angelique said, "will you tell us your names?"

The planchet trembled under my fingers, hard enough for the little round legs to click against the ouija board, and then moved slowly from the central position between the YES and NO to the alphabet, growing cold beneath my fingers as it pointed out, "S. I. M. O. N."

Noel inhaled sharply as I read out the letters, and when I looked at him his eyes were bright. He swallowed hard, and I squeezed his hand.

"Simon," Angelique said. "Simon, is there a message you would like to give to us?"

The planchet trembled again, and pointed out slowly, "C. A. L. E. B."

Noel whispered, "May I speak?" and when Angelique nodded, he said, "Simon, is there something more you want me to do to take care of Caleb? I'm doing everything I can think of."

"L. O. V. E. C. A. L. E. B.," the ouija board spelled out. "L. O. V. E. N. O. E. L."

Noel nearly sobbed at that, and whispered, "God, Simon, I love you too. I miss you so much."

"Simon," Angelique said gently, "is there more you would like to tell us? Can you tell us anything about the other spirits in this house?"

There was a pause. I don't think any of us breathed. The planchet pointed slowly to, "C. U. R. S. E."

Mary Kate whispered, "Curse?"

"W. I. F. E."

Noel said softly, "Thibodeaux wives die young, often violently. We think it's because the family is cursed."

"B. A. B. Y." I looked up at them. "I had a dream once about a baby, a stolen child. I think that's connected to the family curse somehow."

The planchet jerked under my fingers to the YES at the side of the ouija board.

"The stolen child caused the curse on the family?" Angelique said, and again the planchet pointed to YES. The wood of the planchet was cold enough to burn, and I lifted my fingers to blow on them. "Was it Charlotte who placed the curse?"

The planchet slowly pointed to NO.

"Is Charlotte here?"

Again, NO.

"Simon," Angelique said, "whose child was stolen?"

The planchet started to move again, growing colder still. "J. U. S. T--"

A force of great cold blew threw me. It knocked me onto my back with a clatter, while Mary Kate cried out, "Malcolm!" and Angelique said in a stern voice, "Spirits of this house, I command you--"

Thunder crashed -- the great cold blew out the candles -- lightning flashed -- and amidst shouts and Angelique's, "Spirits of this house, I command you! Release Malcolm Carmichael!" the cold force picked me up like a rag doll and threw me against the dining room wall.

***

For a moment -- perhaps less than that -- the world was small and gray, as if I were being swallowed by a being far greater than me -- and then reality rushed back, with the sound of rain on the windows and the smoky smell of candlelight.

Out of the fog I heard voices. "Is he breathing?" "Get a pillow for under his head." "Where's the nearest hospital?" and then felt hands cradling my head. "You're all right, sunshine," Noel whispered as he bent over me. "You're going to be all right."

I put my hand over his. I could hear Mary Kate sobbing, "What happened?" as George and Angelique tried to comfort her. "What could do that to him?"

"Sh, now, cherie," Angelique said, patting Mary Kate's back. "I've never seen a spirit do anything like that before. Our ghost doesn't want anything about her to be revealed."

"She's strong," said Dorian. "Stronger than anyone we've contacted. I can't wait to listen to the tape."

"Can we talk about that later?" Noel said. "We need to take care of Malcolm."

"Sarge?" Rene said gently. "You gave us a scare, Sarge."

I felt Noel's fingers in my hair, checking my head for bumps. "I don't think you hit your head."

"I just hit everything else," I said, struggling to sit up, and Noel put his arm behind my shoulders to support me. He tipped our heads together and I leaned into him, and that was when I felt how badly he was shaking. "I'm all right, Noel."

He whispered, "You'd better be," and I huffed.

"Let's get you upstairs," said Rene, who seemed to be the calmest among us, and he and Noel managed to get me upright.

There was a click, and Dorian said, "The lights are out."

"We lose electricity during bad storms," Noel said. Lightning flashed as if to emphasize his point. "There's plenty of room, folks, if you don't mind staying the night. Likely it'll be safer than trying to drive back to the city in this weather."

Our three new visitors murmured they didn't mind, and Dorian said, "Do you have any kerosene lamps or flashlights?"

"I think we've got some flashlights in the kitchen. There should be candles and matches in every room."

They herded me to my room and lay me down. I hissed with pain at the sudden pressure on my back, and Noel moved me onto my side. He put a bolster behind me to keep me from rolling onto my back again, and then lay his hand on my cheek. "I'm going to get everyone settled and come back as soon as that's done." I nodded, too exhausted to speak much more tonight. He stroked my cheek and went out into the hall to see to his guests.

Mary Kate sat by my side on the bed and took my hand. I squeezed hers gently.

"What you said about Zachary, the night before Mom's funeral," she said. "That's real. He's really haunting you. I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

"No reason why you would," I said, stroking her knuckles.

"How long as this been going on?"

"Since Hurtgen Forest."

"Oh, Mal." She pressed my hand to her cheek. "Your hands are cold." She tucked them under the blanket.

All of me was cold, but it wasn't from the storm. The ghost -- not Simon, there was no way that could have been Simon -- had passed through me, bringing with her all of her anger and rage, and now I was cold down to my bones.

Noel and Dorian returned, Dorian with flashlights, which he handed off to the others. "Mary Kate?" said George when he turned his on. Mary Kate was still sitting beside me, stroking my hair, and she hesitated.

"We shouldn't leave him alone."

"I'll stay with him," Noel said.

Mary Kate murmured, "All right," and then bent to kiss my cheek. "Feel better, Mal." She leaned her forehead against my temple, and then rose to join George.

Noel took her place beside me, and said, as the others shuffled off to their rooms, "What can I get you, Malcolm?" He glanced at the door, and said more softly, "You'll have to tell me where you keep your cigarettes."

"I smoked the last one a few days ago," I said, huddling deeper under the blanket. "I haven't even started looking around for how to replenish my supply."

"I think I know some people who'd know. It will have to wait until tomorrow, though." He stroked my forehead. "May I see your back?"

"Yes." I sat up slowly, again with his help, and we worked off my shirt and undershirt. Noel held the candlestick closer to see the bruises, and I heard him inhale and exhale sharply. "Bad?"

"Bad. I'm going to get some witch hazel and aspirin for you. I'll just be a few minutes."

"I'll be here," I said, which got a huff in response. He left, and came back a few minutes later with witch hazel, aspirin, and a glass of water. He poured four pills into my hand, and gave me the water once I'd put them in my mouth. I swallowed the pills, and then lay down on my stomach.

"This may sting a little," he said.

"I'm a big boy," I mumbled. "I can handle it."

"I know you can," he murmured and I felt the soft brush of cotton balls and the cool sting of witch hazel as he brushed it over my back.

He said as he worked, "Angelique and Rene asked for separate rooms. I didn't expect that. I think they're waiting until they're married. I didn't think people did that anymore."

"That's sweet," I murmured.

"Mm," in affirmation. Another minute or two passed, then he said, "If you want some warm milk, I could try to make some but I think your sister will probably be better at it."

I had to smile. "I don't think I'll need it, but thanks for the offer."

"All right." Another pause. His hands were so gentle I thought I might doze off before he was done. "Why didn't you tell me that you were sleepwalking again?"

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Malcolm," he said, "I'm going to worry."

I said, "If you were anybody else, I'd say you need to sleep with me to make sure I don't anymore."

"If you were anybody else, I would."

I turned my head to look at him. We had only one candle burning but I could still see his face, the worry and tenderness in his expression. It made my heart crack, and I reached for the hand resting on the bed to hold him over me. "Noel," I said. "I'm all right. I'll be better by morning."

Noel blinked a few times and swallowed, then said, "Pajamas," and withdrew his hand from mine. I watched as he went to the dresser to fetch pajama pants and a sweater. I sat up again, carefully, and tried not to smile as Noel helped me put on the V-neck sweater over a fresh undershirt. Boots, trousers, and pants next, and I caught a ghost of a smile on his mouth.

"I know," I said. "I usually imagine this under better circumstances, too."

"And certainly not putting your clothes back on you," Noel said. "Under the covers, sunshine."

"More like the north wind tonight," I said, but let him help me get beneath the duvet anyway. He spread the extra blanket over me, and then sat on the edge of the bed. He played with my hair, stroking and smoothing it, and my eyelids drooped and my breathing slowed.

It was so soothing, I was starting to doze when Noel said, "Malcolm, I ... I think you should go back to Chicago with the Talbots."

My eyes popped open. "What? No."

"You're not safe here," Noel said. "Tonight proves it. She hates you. She's not going to stop trying to hurt you. The only way to keep you safe is for you to leave."

"Noel, I'm not afraid."

"I am!"

We stared at each other -- me at a loss for words, him struggling to find them --and then Noel turned away and shoved his hands into his hair. "I can't," he said, his voice shaking, "I can't -- _lose_ \-- anyone else. Okay? I can't."

I said, "Noel," as I put my arms around him and pulled him to me. He curled against me, his head on my shoulder. "I made a promise," I whispered and kissed his hair. "To you, to me -- I promised to stay with you. I'm _going_ to stay with you. She can't do anything to me worse than I've already been through."

Noel breathed heavily, and held me tight around my waist. It was painful, but not enough for me to ask him to stop. I just held him too, stroking his hair and kissing his face, and eventually his shaking stopped.

"Sorry," he murmured as he started to pull away. "I should be comforting you."

"I'm all right," I said. "Don't go."

We looked at each other, painful and full of longing. "I'll stay with you," he said, "of course I will. Mary Kate's right, we shouldn't leave you alone. But I think I'd best not sleep in your bed with you."

I released him reluctantly -- the warmth of his body was more comforting than any amount of blankets, no matter how soft -- and he moved my armchair closer to the bed. I lay down my head, the bolster behind me to keep me from rolling over, and huddled beneath the bedding, except for one hand which Noel took.

After a few minutes I whispered, "Hey, Noel?"

"Yes, Malcolm?" He didn't sound sleepy at all.

"Happy New Year."

He huffed. "Happy New Year," he said and kissed my palm.

***

More than once, I jerked awake from nightmares of Hurtgen Forest, the streets of New Orleans, and even once the jungles of the Pacific -- but Noel was with me all through the night, our hands loosely joined, and even in his sleep his presence was a comfort.

Still, I was grateful when I finally opened my eyes that it was morning, and from the angle of the sun it was closer to noon than nine. The previous night's rain had cleared away, leaving the sky soft and blue, and the air when I opened the window smelling sweetly of the river.

Someone tapped on my door, and Dorian said through it, "Malcolm, are you awake? Do you need any help? There's breakfast if you're hungry."

"I'll be down shortly," I said, and decided to bypass a bath and clothes for a bit longer. I put on a bathrobe and made my way slowly downstairs, to find the rest of the household around the kitchen table, eating pancakes and sausage with plenty of coffee and tall glasses of orange juice.

Or rather mimosas, I realized, when Mary Kate handed me one and I had a sip. "We never got around to toasting the New Year last night," she said, "so we thought we should use the champagne today."

"Good call," I said, and eased into a chair.

"How are you feeling today, Mal?"

"Stiff," I said. "Give me a day or two and I'll be back to normal." George lay a plate of pancakes in front of me, dripping with syrup and melted butter, and I cut off my first bite as he and Mary Kate took the chairs at my sides. I hesitated, and said, "I sense an ambush."

"Mary Kate and I have been talking," George said, and conversation fell silent around the rest of the table. "We -- and I think Noel will agree with us -- we think you should come back to Chicago with us."

I looked at Noel. He drank his coffee, eyes downcast. I said, "Noel and I actually had this conversation last night, and I'm going to say to you what I said to him. No."

"Mal--" Mary Kate began.

"I'm not going to run away like some kind of coward. I made a promise. I'm going to keep it."

"You're not safe here, Malcolm!" Mary Kate exclaimed. "I don't know what that thing last night was but I know it wants to hurt you. If you stay here I'm afraid you're just going to give it more opportunities, until it kills you."

Rene said softly, "There is the curse, Sarge," and I scowled at him. "Oh, now, don't be coy. You and Noel are sweethearts."

"You don't try very hard to hide it," Mary Kate said, soft too.

"I'm more worried about what Emmanuel will do when he finds out," Noel said calmly, "than the family curse. As Malcolm has pointed out to me, we can't marry, and the curse seems to focus on wives."

"Then why is it targeting Malcolm?" Mary Kate asked him. "The scratches, the violence -- while George and I haven't seen or felt a thing. It doesn't just hurt people who happen to be in the house."

"I can't answer that," Noel said.

"I can't either," I said, "which gives me more reason to stay. I want to know what she wants. I want to know why she hates the family."

"They're not your family, Malcolm," Mary Kate said.

I closed my eyes a moment. I said, opening them, "Not by blood, no."

Noel smiled the way I liked, the smile that was mostly in his eyes.

Mary Kate wasn't done yet, though. "What will I tell Dad if something happens to you?"

"Tell him I remember what he taught us. Some things are worth fighting for." I was still gazing at Noel as he gazed at me, and everything around us felt unimportant compared to the look on his face. I added, "Worth dying for," and the smile moved to Noel's lips, small and gentle.

"But," he said, "no dying. I forbid it."

"Yes, sir," I replied. "Same goes for you."

"Yes, sir," he said.

Angelique let out a breath. "Well, as momentous as this day feels, we should get back to the city. Rene and I are supposed to have lunch with my parents, and I want to listen to the reel-to-reel as soon as possible."

Breakfast broke up at that, empty plates taken to the dishwasher and leftover pancakes wrapped in foil and put in the fridge to enjoy later.

Mary Kate lingered in the kitchen after the others had left, Noel with a squeeze of my shoulder, and I waited for her to speak as I finished my pancakes. Finally I said, "Out with it."

"I'm still not certain what happened last night," she said, fidgeting with a dishtowel. Rosemary, in her booster seat, patted the table and babbled, and Mary Kate smiled at her absently. "I've never felt -- hatred -- like that. Like that thing was made of everything that makes Hell."

"You didn't see what I saw in Europe," I replied quietly, and downed the last of my mimosa. "Hatred is a strong thing."

"So you're going to stay here and let it have its way with you?"

"No," I said, "I'm going to stay here and protect the people I care about the best I can. Mary Kate." I held out my hand to her and she took it, tight. "I saw terrible things during the war, things I don't want to talk about, ever. But they taught me something. You can't be afraid of hate. That's how it wins. All you can do is be stronger than it is."

"Hate is one thing when it's a madman in power," Mary Kate said. "This is -- good God, Malcolm, I don't even know what this is. Ghosts, curses, stolen babies -- this isn't the world that I know."

"It's a world that exists all around us," I said. "Look. I'm not saying there's nothing to be afraid of. But I'm not going to let fear control my life. If I did that, nothing I've wanted would have happened. Bravery comes in all forms, and sometimes that form is just -- being too stubborn to leave."

"Carmichael stubbornness," Mary Kate said. She rose and kissed my forehead. "Don't let it get you killed, all right?"

"I won't," I said, and hoped this was another promise I could keep.

Angelique, Rene, and Dorian left shortly before noon, just in time to miss Emmanuel's arrival. If he noticed anything different about the house, or about the way Noel and I were with each other, I couldn't tell.

Noel and I _were_ different with each other, that day and days following, in a way that I couldn't quite name. There's the way people are with each other when they're comfortable with each other's bodies -- a more intimate way of touching, a gentler way of speaking -- but this was different even from that. We had made promises to each other out loud, and there were implied promises along with them. At the time I simply thought, _Well, of course,_ because to look at it more closely meant saying words I hadn't said to anyone since I was in my teens. I still wasn't ready for that, even though sometimes I felt my heart would burst with keeping the words unspoken.

I focused on the Talbots instead -- played with the baby, talked with George, teased Mary Kate. She taught Caleb to skip rope and drew pictures with him, and George stayed up late with us to view stars through the telescope.

They left for Chicago on the second, with many hugs and kisses. "Be careful," Mary Kate said to me again, and I hugged her and said, "I am."

As we watched them drive away, Noel put his arm over my shoulders. "Good people," he said simply.

"I love them a lot," I said, just as simply.

He squeezed my shoulder and we stood a moment more, looking at each other. He said, "Well, back to normal life," and let me go. I thought life would never truly be back to normal, but in the best possible way, the way I hoped would never truly end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming in on the home stretch, folks.


	27. The Empty House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> We had made promises to each other out loud, and there were implied promises along with them.

The following Saturday, Alex Christie brought Samuel to Fidele to play with Caleb. He told Noel as they went over the books in the library -- me a few seats away at the study table, making more worksheets for the coming week -- "We're happy to have him over any time. They get along so well, and Caleb is a delight to have in the house."

"Thank you," Noel said with a bit of a smile. He inhaled as if he were going to speak, hesitated, then said, "I've been meaning to ask you about that. If it wouldn't be too much of an imposition, would you be willing to take him for the weekend of the eleventh? My current tenant is moving to Baton Rouge and I want to work on the house a bit before the next one moves in."

"Of course," said Alex. "We'd be happy to."

"Thank you." He wrote down another figure, then said to me, "Malcolm, would you be willing to come with me? I could use an extra set of hands."

"Sure," I said, "though I'm not very handy if there are a lot of repairs to be done."

"It's nothing too specialized," Noel said as he wrote. "You'll be fine."

I smiled to myself as I returned to my work. Swinging a hammer or fixing drains was not how I had hoped Noel and I would spend a little time alone together, but I would take any opportunity we could get. Noel would be returning to his busy traveling schedule soon, which meant if he was home on Friday or Saturday nights we would take Caleb to the pictures or to visit the 4/4 club. Private time for the two of us would be scarce for a while.

I had no real cause to complain, though. We spent as much time together as we could; we talked and worked together after supper in the library, we went for walks and the occasional drive, we played with Caleb, cooked with Mrs. Bell, commiserated about Emmanuel. We had reached an understanding on New Year's Day, and while it changed nothing, everything was different. We were ... _more_ to each other, and we both knew it. Whatever happened between us next would happen when it was meant to, and I was willing to wait.

At supper that night, Noel interrupted the silence with, "Father, my tenant has finished his contract with us and is moving to Atlanta for his next job. I'd like to spend the weekend of the eleventh doing some repairs on the house, before my next tenant moves in."

Emmanuel leaned back in his chair and had a sip of wine. He swished it around his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing, then said, "And?"

"I'd like Malcolm to come with me so I have an extra set of hands, which he's willing to do, and Alex Christie has agreed to take Caleb for the weekend. It would be from Friday night until Sunday evening." Noel ate a bite of his stew -- beef and noodle in a rich, rosemary-flavored broth, perfect for a January day, even here where winter meant you might want a sweater after sundown.

Emmanuel gave him a hard look, while Caleb bounced in his chair, barely containing his excitement. I put his hand on his shoulder. "That's next week, Caleb. Finish your supper." He picked up his spoon, still beaming, and had a little more stew himself.

Emmanuel swung his gaze to me, and said, "You're _helping out_?"

"I can swing a hammer or hold the end of a measuring tape," I said.

"I'm not asking permission, Father," Noel said in his calmest, firmest tone. "I'm informing you of our plans."

"So it doesn't matter if I had any plans for Caleb next week."

" _Do_ you have plans for Caleb next week?" Noel asked, and Caleb looked like his treat had been pulled just out of his grasp. "You never have before."

Emmanuel snorted and drank more wine.

Noel muttered, "I thought so," and resumed eating. "We'll take Caleb to the Christies before suppertime," he said, "so you can eat at your club or whatever you do Friday night. We might want to give the staff the weekend off, if you're going to be away from home, as well."

"I'll sleep in my own bed, thank you," Emmanuel retorted.

"Very well. Malcolm and I will pick up Caleb Sunday evening, so he can get to bed on time."

"You have it all planned out."

"I like plans, Father," Noel said quietly.

Emmanuel gave us both suspicious looks again, as if there was something wrong he couldn't quite put his finger on -- but I couldn't see why. I wasn't handy, as I'd told Noel, but I could find a stud in a wall or paint scratches from a wall, hang pictures or even help with laundry, whatever Noel needed. A weekend of physical work was no trouble, even less so if it meant time with Noel where we could talk openly and maybe even find time for some affection.

I just drank my water, keeping my expression as neutral as possible, while Caleb looked from Noel to me as if he wasn't sure what was happening. Noel noticed this and said, "You're going to spend next weekend with Samuel at the Christies' house, peanut, while Mr. Malcolm and I work on my house in the city to make it nice for the next person who rents it. What do you think about that?"

A smile broke over Caleb's face and he nodded with enthusiasm. Noel smiled back and said, "I'm glad, honey. Finish your stew, now. It's almost time for your stories."

***

Once Caleb was put to bed, Noel and I got into the Jaguar and drove into the city, to meet Angelique and Rene at Dorian's house to listen to the reel-to-reel tape from the seance. I had offered to go alone, but Noel said, his tone stoic, "If I can handle the Japanese army I can handle some voices on a tape recording," so I didn't insist.

I thought it said something about the recordings, though, that Angelique thought we should go to Dorian's, with its higher likelihood of privacy, than her or Rene's house where parents and siblings were always around. The cold force that had gripped me, even for just a few seconds, was never far from my thoughts. Ghosts I had encountered bore all sorts of emotions with them -- fear, resentment, sorrow -- but I had never felt a rage so strong and encompassing. I wanted to know more, no matter what the recordings might reveal.

We parked around the corner from Dorian's house. The night was windy and warm, a sure sign of rain to come. Noel remarked after a moment, "I can't remember it raining this much, even in winter. But maybe it did and I just don't remember as well as I think."

"It becomes background noise when you get used to it," I said. "Maybe after the Pacific it feels different than it did before."

"Maybe," Noel said. "It rained a lot there, too." He sighed and got out of the car, and I followed, wondering what he was remembering -- or trying not to remember.

Dorian greeted us at the door, and took us to the dining room. "Sorry about the mess," he said, because most of the long table was covered with books and stacks of paper. "We never quite got around to tidying up after finals week."

Noel smiled a little at that and said, "Would you like some help?"

"I think my housemates would have a hemorrhage apiece if I disrupted the system," Dorian said, and the doorbell rang. "That'll be Angelique. Excuse me." He went to let them in.

Noel and I sat in the chairs on one side of the cleared end of the table, where Dorian had set up the reel-to-reel. I fidgeted with my cane. Noel said, "Malcolm, if you think this will be difficult for you to listen to, we can do this another time."

"I don't," I said. "I'm more worried about you."

Noel was quiet a moment, then said softly, "I'd give anything to hear Simon's voice again," and got to his feet when Rene and Angelique came into the room. There were handshakes and kisses on cheeks all around for a moment, then we sat at the table again.

Dorian said, "Angelique and I have listened to this a few times. We've held -- how many seances do you think, Angelique?"

"Twenty-three," Angelique said. "Not counting the ones when we were children and didn't know what we were doing."

"Twenty-three seances," Dorian said, "and I've never heard anything as strong and clear as this. I hope it'll answer some questions for you, Noel."

Noel nodded, his expression somber, and Dorian pushed play.

The first few minutes were as I expected -- we gave our names and Angelique asked for a blessing, and then the questions began. The answers, too, from the discordant slam on the piano to announce his presence, to the moment Angelique asked for the spirit's name.

_Simon._

Beside me Noel inhaled, and I grasped his hand. For every answer he can give on the ouija board, he had spoken it as well, in a voice that was soft and sad and so like Noel's it made my scalp prick.

"Can you tell us anything about the other spirits in this house?" Angelique's voice asked on the recording, and the voice responded, _The curse. His wife. Her baby._

Angelique asked on the tape, "Simon, whose child was stolen?" the question we had only received a partial answer to before the cold force interrupted. This time, we heard Simon's answer.

_Justine._

Dorian stopped the reel-to-reel at that point, as the seance dissolved into shouts and clatters, and looked at Noel. "Does the name Justine mean anything to you, from the family history?"

Noel kept hold of my hand. His face was still full of sorrow, as if hearing Simon's voice again was harder to bear than he expected, and I was glad he availed himself to whatever comfort I could offer. He said, "No, I don't think so. To be honest, the family history was never of much interest to me, aside from how we could make up for it. Grace might have known who she was."

I frowned, trying to remember if I had seen that name anywhere in the house -- on a painting, maybe, or written on the flyleaf of a book. Her name wasn’t in the family Bible, which I knew by heart at this point. I said, "Didn't you tell me once Achille had a Haitian mistress?"

"He did," Noel said. "Family lore says that portrait that scared Caleb and Samuel is a portrait of her. But I don't know her name, and Grace had our old papers and letters in the house the night of the fire."

"Not all of them," I said, and everyone looked at me. "I found a ledger in the library once that Achille had kept when he bought the land and build Fidele. It's pretty dry reading -- purchases and sales, the housekeeping accounts, what was planted where and how many acres. Everything you'd expect in a ledger."

"It might be worth reading again," Angelique said. "You might notice a detail now that you missed the first time you read it."

"I'll look through it again, then," I said.

"So here's what we know," Rene said, in a serious tone I hadn't heard from him since the war. "Achille had a Haitian mistress in addition to his wife. She had a child, which he took from her. She cursed the family out of revenge. Does that sound accurate?"

Noel pressed his free hand to his eyes. "That's accurate," he said when he removed it.

"The child must have died," Dorian said. "She may even believe Achille allowed it to happen."

"Oh, God," I said, "Michel. There's another grave in Achille and Charlotte's tomb -- an infant who only lived a day. Probably just long enough to be baptized, since he has a name. Michel."

"But that was Maxim's twin," Noel said. "The family is descended from Achille through Maxim."

"Maybe they weren't twins," I said. "If Michel was Achille's child, born about the same time as Maxim, then it would make sense Achille would want the baby buried on the family plot, even if he was illegitimate. God knows it was easy to fake birth records in those days. He'd just have to say Michel was the twin of his legitimate son and no one would ask another question."

"But why would he take the baby if the baby was dying?" Noel said.

"Maybe he knew," I said, though something jogged at my memory that didn't quite fit this picture. "He might have known the baby was dying and took him to a priest to be baptized, so he could be buried in holy ground."

"He didn't want his child suffering in Limbo," Angelique said.

"That hardly makes up for all the other terrible things he did," Noel said dryly.

"Very few people are all good or all bad," Angelique replied. "They're far more complex than that."

"I suppose," Noel murmured. He glanced at our hands, and then let mine go as if he'd forgotten he was holding it. "Thank you, all of you. I wanted answers, and I suppose I have as many as I'm going to get for the time being."

As we prepared to part ways, Dorian asked me quietly, "And you? Do you think Justine is the spirit that's been watching you?"

"It makes as much sense as anything else," I said. "I thought it might be Charlotte, but if she's not in the house like Simon said, Justine is the likely culprit."

Dorian nodded, troubled. "Be careful, Malcolm," he said. "Two hundred years is a long time to nurse a grudge."

"I can't be Noel's wife," I said, "so she has no reason to want me dead."

Dorian didn't even crack a smile, and looked distracted when we said good night.

***

That night, as I lay awake in bed I heard the faint sound of piano music from downstairs. It was classical, rather than jazz -- _Noel,_ I thought, and slipped out of bed to get my cane and bathrobe. If he was having a sleepless night too then he might appreciate some company.

I made my way downstairs to the music room and peeked in the door, which was ajar. Instead of Noel, however, Emmanuel sat at the piano bench, playing the piano part of Beethoven's Ghost Trio with feeling.

I stood in the doorway, transfixed. I hadn't thought he played music -- I had thought, at most, the piano was another heirloom he ignored like the first editions in the library or the fine paintings hanging in passages he never used. But he played without sheet music or stumbling over a note, as if it were a piece he loved.

I thought as I listened, _If he showed this kind of passion while he was courting Fabienne, no wonder she married him._

He reached the end of the piece and removed his hands from the keyboard, and then turned abruptly to me, his face like thunder -- though when he saw it was me, he relaxed a fraction.

I said, "You play very well, Mr. Thibodeaux."

He grunted in response and turned back to the piano.

"The twins must have gotten their musical ability from you."

He inhaled. "Is there a reason why you're bothering me, Carmichael?"

"I like music," I said as I came into the music room, and I sat in one of the armchairs near the piano. "I wanted to listen."

"You like my son," he said with a sneer.

"That, too," I admitted. "I like to listen to him play. I wish I could have heard Simon play, too."

Emmanuel didn't respond out loud to that -- only bent his head a little, and touched the piano keys.

I said softly, "Did you know Simon wrote songs for Noel? Or at least one, that I've heard."

He played the opening notes to _Für Elise_. I leaned back in the chair and folded my hands together, and listened to the piece in silence. I prefer jazz myself, it's true, but I like a great many other pieces of music, too, including this one. It gave me time to think, too, of what I could say to Emmanuel to get him to talk to me -- though I supposed, wryly, that it would be easier if I knew what I wanted him to talk to me about.

When he finished _Für Elise_ , I said, "We're just trying to give Caleb as normal a childhood as we can, Mr. Thibodeaux. Children need to play and have friends. They need to know what to expect from day to day. Children with a stable home life is how you get successful adults."

"Learned this from your socialist parents, did you?"

"I learned this when I got my degree," I said. "It's the latest in child development theory, which only backs up the practices my parents followed. My point is, letting Caleb spend time with Samuel Christie is not a slight to you -- it's just trying to give Caleb what he needs."

"In my day --"

"I know what they did in your day," I said, weary, "and I know what you did when the twins were young, which is why I'm glad modern parenting isn't like how it was in your day." I picked up my cane and started to get to my feet, when Emmanuel whirled to me, his face like a storm again.

"You think you know a lot more than you really do, Carmichael. You have no idea--"

"I have idea enough," I said. "I know you came home from the war to find a dead wife and living twins, and instead of being a loving father you neglected and abused them, and sent Noel away when you didn't want to deal with him any more. It's a wonder they turned out as well as they did, given that treatment, instead of becoming juvenile delinquents or worse. My father," I went on, heating up, "fought in the same war you did and saw the same horrors, and came away wanting to make the world a better place instead of wrapping himself up in grief like an excuse. Simon and Noel are good men despite you, Emmanuel Thibodeaux, not because of you, and that's your shame to bear."

Emmanuel's eyelid twitched, and he rose from the bench to his full height. He was a tall man, but so am I, and as intimidating as his presence could be I saw no reason to fear him. Any greatness he might have made of his life was negated by his treatment of his children.

But before I could tell him so, he swayed, and put a hand to his temple. "Mr. Thibodeaux?" I said and reach out to take his arm, but he shook off my hand.

"Leave me alone. Save your lectures. I'm going to bed." He pushed past me, and I watched him go, frowning.

Alone in the music room, I closed the lid on the piano, and ran my fingers over the satiny wood. I had to stop losing my temper at him, I knew; as the father and grandfather of two people I cared about, I should show him more respect.

But it was difficult. If he had been a more kind man, if he had treated Simon and Noel with love and affection, even if he tried harder with Caleb, I would have been more inclined to be patient with him -- as it was, it was hard not to see him like my childhood bullies who made my life miserable until Zachary made them stop: someone weak who attacked someone weaker in order to make themselves feel strong.

A soft wind blew through the room. I inhaled, bracing myself -- but it didn't turn frigid or fierce. Rather, it wrapped around me like an embrace, faintly scented of vanilla.

***

Friday afternoon, Noel came home from work early. Mrs. Bell had already packed Caleb's little suitcase; I tried to keep him focused during afternoon lessons, but gave up after an hour because all he wanted to do was draw pictures of the Christies. I made sure his bag had a fresh stack of drawing paper and plenty of crayons, and we played with Tumnus on the front steps while we waited.

Noel pulled the Jaguar into the drive, and he said as he got out, "And here I thought I'd have to help with packing, at least. Are you excited to spend the weekend with Samuel?" and Caleb nodded vigorously in response. Noel laughed and picked him up, gave him a kiss, and said to me, "What about you, Malcolm? Ready for this weekend?"

"I'm ready," I said. "I packed my work clothes." Of course, my work clothes were not much different from the clothes I wore every day.

Noel smiled a bit and put Caleb down. We gave Tumnus to Mrs. Bell and she said, "Have fun, now, sugar," as Caleb hugged her. "You, too," she said to Noel, and he smiled a little more.

"It's a working weekend, but thank you." He took up Caleb's suitcase and mine, and nodded to the car. "Let's go, then."

The drive to the Christie's house was quick. Noel got out to take Caleb to the door, where the boys hugged each other and ran inside, and Noel thanked Julia again and again for watching him. Then he was back in the car again, gave me another small smile, and started the engine.

A few miles passed. The radio softly played a gospel tune by the Carter Family. I watched the bayou go by, my fingers tapping on my knee, and said, "I'm oddly excited to spend a weekend doing physical activity. I can't remember the last time I built something."

"I thought your family believed in making things when times were bad."

"We do," I said, "but for me that's usually a cartoon or a pan of warm milk."

Noel hummed along to the music. He said, "I hope times won't get bad any time soon."

"It doesn't feel that way." I rapped on the wood paneling, just to be sure.

In due time, we arrived in the city and drove to the French Quarter. We passed mansions, brightly-painted shotguns, tall townhouses, and finally came to a street lined with Creole cottages. Noel drove to an alley behind the houses and pulled into a garage, and once the Jaguar was parked he all but leapt out of the car instead of waiting as he often did, as if he needed to gather his thoughts first.

No such gathering this time. We got our bags from the trunk, and left the little garage -- a carriage house when the place was first built, Noel said -- to cross a small but lush courtyard. Brick walls separated the house from its neighbors. There were stone pavers on the ground, which was dotted with potted plants big and small.

Noel unlocked the back door and let me in. "Wait here," he said and went out through the front door, and opened the shutters that shielded the front windows from the street, letting in the afternoon light.

The house it revealed seemed too big to fit into the exterior. The ground floor was a great room with a kitchen at one end, and a spiral staircase that led to the gallery above. A chandelier hung from the ceiling to light both floors. Book cases had been built into the walls, filled with books, framed pictures, small objects d'art, interesting stones, even a geode.

Noel led me through it eagerly. "I'd been modernizing it bit by bit since I moved in. I had a gas stove and modern appliances put in, and modern windows, and I painted some of the walls. The bathroom was my last project -- new toilet, tub, and sinks, and a shower with a detachable shower head." This room looked out to the courtyard, and I could imagine being here with the windows open and feeling like I was bathing outdoors. "These bricks are original, and so are the floorboards, the front windows, and shutters. I've tried not to change much about the original house aside from making it more comfortable."

"It's beautiful," I said, and he beamed, pleased.

"Come upstairs," he said, so we climbed the spiral staircase. Upstairs, there was a lone, large bed under the eaves with another window that looked out over the courtyard. On the street side of the house was a reading nook, with an overstuffed armchair, ottoman, and more bookcases, small enough to fit under the sloping roof. Curtains separated the sleeping area and reading area, for now tied back to the wrought iron trellis that framed the gallery.

"This place is amazing," I said to Noel. "But what needs to be done? It looks like your tenant took great care of it."

Noel rested his hand on the back of the armchair. "Malcolm," he said hesitantly, "I ... lured you here under false pretenses."

To be honest, I had suspected as much from the moment he parked the Jaguar. "Oh?" I said in my most innocent, trusting tone.

"My previous tenant moved out last week," he said, "and my new tenant doesn't move in until the first of February. There aren't any repairs that need to be done -- just a few things cleaned here and there, or washed and put away, at most. I brought you here so ... we could be alone. No one watching." He paused and bit his lip. "Forgive me?"

I said softly, "Of course I do, dopey," as I crossed the room, and I took his face in my hand and kissed his mouth.

We kissed like we were making up for lost time, and when we finally parted -- not for long, we couldn't bear it -- he said, "I thought maybe we could go out to dinner tonight, or to the theater --"

"Is there food here?" I whispered as I kissed his throat.

He laughed, soft, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. "Yes. Yes. I went shopping before I left for Fidele."

I nipped his pulse, then stepped back and tugged on his hand. "Let's stay in."

"I thought you'd say that," Noel said, pulling me along as I pulled him.

We toppled onto the bed, kissing and tugging at each other's clothes. "Oh, sunshine, I've missed your body," Noel sighed when he'd undressed me, and I sprawled under him, unashamed.

The setting sun shown through the windows opposite, painting Noel with light like an angel in a stained glass window. I held his face as we kissed, or shoved my hands through his hair, or stroked them down his body. My fingertips touched scars but I didn't linger over those -- more important were the muscles in his back and chest, because I knew how hard he'd worked to make himself strong.His broad chest, his slim hips, the fine texture of his skin, even the clearness of his eyes all felt hard-earned, and I showed my appreciation and gratitude with my lips and tongue.

There was little need to talk -- we wanted the same thing. Noel had mineral oil to make me slick, and I writhed as he opened me, moaning with abandon. He watched me with eyes that looked even more like a stormy sea than ever, and when I gripped his upper arms and said, "Now. Now," he smiled a tiny bit and held himself over me to kiss me, hard and deep.

Finally, carefully, he slid inside me. I gasped through parted lips, my fingers digging into his shoulders, but when he said, "Does it hurt? Should I stop?" I shook my head. I felt no pain. Only the burn of pleasure of Noel inside me, so good I could have wept.

"Don't stop." I kissed him. "Don't stop."

Noel smiled again, sweetly, his eyelids lowered, and kissed my forehead before he once again began to move.

As we rocked together, Noel took one of my hands and held it over my head, and watched my face. I smiled -- I couldn't help myself, I felt so good, I was so happy, he was so beautiful -- and he leaned on his arm, still holding my hand, and kissed me in his sweet, lingering way. They were kisses worth living for, and I clung to them, only letting him pull away from me when the need for air was too great.

I ran my thumb over his lips. He closed his eyes, took my thumb in his teeth. I could feel his limbs trembling and shivers running down his back. I held him to me tighter, my good leg around his hip, and pushed up against him as hard as I could, trying to give as good as I was getting -- until my muscles tensed and then released, until he tucked his head against my neck and groaned, his lips open on my skin.

Still I held him to me, arms and a leg wrapped around him. My bad leg ached but it was faint enough to ignore. The rest of me was in a good place, the best place, somewhere I wanted to keep Noel until then end of our days.

Noel lifted his head and gazed at me. I gazed back, and ran my knuckles over his cheek. He closed his eyes, and then lay his head in the crook of my neck again. I ran my fingers over his shoulders and closed my eyes too, and listened to him breathe.

***

We had to get out of bed and eat eventually. We washed up and put on pants, and in the kitchen Noel baked some potatoes and grilled steaks. I was his sous chef, chopping this and stirring that, including tomatoes and cucumbers to toss with some greens for a salad, and onions sliced as thin as I could make them to sauté in butter and top the steaks as they finished in the oven. As everything cooked, we poured red wine and lounged in front of the stone hearth in the great room, cozy and comfortable, the shutters closed to shield us from the evening rain.

"How long have you been planning this?" I said, watching Noel watch the fire. I felt lazy and pampered as I lay on the hearth rug, a cushion under my head and a glass of wine in my hand, as every muscle in my body hummed with satisfaction.

Noel shrugged. "Not long. Since New Year's. I knew my tenant would be leaving and I'd want to do some tidying up of the place, and stop by now and again while it's empty, but I hadn't thought of making use of it while it was empty, too, until then."

"New Year's," I murmured. Things had shifted on that day, and this was the result. Well worth it, I thought. "I knew I'd wear you down eventually, and all it took was a ghost tossing me around. I'll keep that in mind."

He huffed and had some wine. We leaned against each other in companionable silence, then he said, "What's San Francisco like?"

"Cold," I said. "It rains a lot, there's fog almost every day, and it rarely gets above eighty degrees. Lots of hills and narrow streets, and more people than there is room for them. But it's charming, too. Colorful and quirky, and it always smells like the ocean. It draws a certain type of person -- adventurous, creative. There's something freeing about living on the edge of the continent, I think."

"It sounds beautiful," Noel murmured. He paused and inhaled, then said, "My firm wants to expand to the west. There are a lot of opportunities out there for us -- so much farmland using irrigation systems that are over a hundred years old, not to mention all the growth going on in the cities and suburbs. My manager asked me before Christmas if I'd like to open a new office in Seattle, Los Angeles, or San Francisco."

"Oh, I said, sitting up. "That's -- oh."

"I told him I couldn't leave New Orleans for a while, but he knows about all the family matters and said the job will wait for me until I'm ready. I just have to decide where I want to go."

"But they're not going to wait forever," I said.

"Likely not. A year or two, at most. We don't even have office space yet, but finding that would be part of my job. As would hiring, making contacts, getting local legal representation, that sort of thing."

"So you wouldn't be traveling as much."

"Probably not for the first few years, no."

"And it would also be a lot less making things."

He nodded at that. "At least at first, but I'll deal with that as it comes. My greater concern is the matter of Emmanuel and Caleb. Emmanuel would never let me take Caleb two thousand miles away, not without a court battle, which he'd make sure I lose." He inhaled, then said, "But -- aside from all of that -- do you think you'd want to come with me?"

I blinked. I'd never been to Seattle or Los Angeles, so they were unknown quantities -- but going home, going back to the city, going back to my family ... going back to the streets full of ghosts ...

But it would be home. It would be home, with Noel.

"We don't have to go to San Francisco," Noel said, his eyes searching my face. "We could go to either of those other cities, or I could ask about--"

I said, "I'd go with you anywhere."

A smile broke over his face, and he leaned over to kiss me. We kissed, his head cradled in my hand, until the timer rang in the kitchen. He pulled back and said, "It'd be a shame to let all this good food go to waste," and we parted to attend to practical matters.

Happiness tastes like red wine and grilled onions that are just a little burnt; it feels like thick, soft hair slipping through my fingers; it sounds like rain making a hearth fire pop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long delay for this chapter! I was in a minor car accident in September, and everything involved with that and real life carrying on the way it does, it took a while to get this chapter ready to my satisfaction. I hope it was worth the wait.


	28. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> "I brought you here so … we could be alone. No one watching.” He paused and bit his lip. “Forgive me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings at the end.

The ache in my bad hip and leg woke me some time after midnight. Noel was asleep; I kissed his cheek and slipped out of his arms, pulled on a bathrobe and got my tin of supplies from my bag, and made my slow, careful way down the spiral staircase.

We had put out the fire in the fireplace and closed the street-facing shutters, so that not even the street lights glimmered through the sills. I went out to the courtyard and curled myself into one of the teak lounge chairs under the lip of the roof, rolled the joint, and lit up.

Twenty minutes or so passed as I smoked and watched the rain. This late, the neighborhood was dark, all the lights off in the neighboring houses, the only sound the occasional passing car splashing down the street. Any music was too far away and faint to hear, but the rain made its own kind of harmony as it tapped on the stone pavers and potted plants.

No wonder Noel had thought of his house as an oasis. Close all the doors and shutters, and you wouldn't know you had any neighbors, let alone that you were in a large and bustling city.

The back door opened and Noel looked out at me. "Is your hip bothering you?"

"Yeah."

He disappeared for a moment, then came outside bearing a thick denim stadium blanket, lined with flannel. "Budge up."

I moved over to make room for him. We wedged together in the chair and he tucked the blanket around us. I gave him the cigarette once he was settled, and he had a drag, exhaling with a deep sigh. I stroked his hair, loving the way the ends wanted to curl around my fingers.

I said softly, "You're so beautiful," and he huffed.

"You're floating right now."

I hummed in agreement. I was feeling pretty jolly, but that only made me affectionate. "I've always thought you were beautiful. The first time I saw you I had no idea who you were but I knew I wanted you."

"And you drew me," Noel said. "I remember."

"I'll draw you again. I'll draw you tonight. I'll draw that lovely body of yours any time you want."

"I'll probably let you." He stroked my leg under the blanket. 

"Only probably?"

"Would only you see it?" he asked seriously. "I don't want other people to see my scars."

"I could leave them off," I said, then said, "Only I wouldn't, because they're part of you and they're beautiful, too. They're proof of how strong you are."

Noel's fingers tapped on my kneecap. "Hm."

"But I could make it just for me," I said. "I've made a lot of pictures that are just for me. You could see them, if you want. Some of them are very ... fanciful."

"Hm," in response again. "How's your comic?"

"My knights seem to be preoccupied with kissing each other, and not so interested in fighting dragons and evil wizards."

"I can't imagine why."

"Wish fulfillment," I said. "If we were knights, I'd want to kiss you every day and twice on Sundays."

Noel smiled and tucked his head on my shoulder. I played with his hair and smoked, peaceful.

"What woke you?" I murmured. "A nightmare?"

"No, for once," he said. "Just -- you weren't there."

"Aw," I said and kissed his hair.

"Shut up," he muttered as he traced circles on my chest. 

"Make me," I said. As I hoped he would, he kissed me. Acceptable. More than acceptable. We kissed and shared the joint, and watched the rain as we huddled together.

My arm lay lightly around his neck, the cigarette in my fingers. It meant I had to hold him tighter to smoke, and I could just hold it to his mouth when he wanted some. It was an excellent way to share the cigarette, particularly when Noel watched me through his lashes, his face close to mine, a faint smile on his lips.

I said, "Times like these, I can hardly believe I ever fought in a war. It feels like a story -- no, like a dream. A bad dream. If I didn't carry the proof of it around in my body every day, I might even forget it ever happened."

"I'll never forget." He inhaled slowly. "This is what feels like a dream. Sometimes I wake up and think the farm machinery is a Japanese airplane, or the smell of the bayou means I'm back in the jungle."

I smoothed his hair back from his face. "You're home now. You're safe."

Noel studied my face. "Well, I'm safer, anyway." He kissed me, and then moved on top of me, still kissing me, my face in his hands. I lay the joint in the lid of the tin, and wrapped my arms around his waist. We kissed and touched, licked and teased, and it would have been enough for me just to rut against each other under the heavy blanket -- but then Noel took my prick in his hand and said, "Malcolm, I want this -- can you --"

"If you ride me, I can," I said, and he shivered and looked at me through his lashes.

"Yes. Definitely, yes. Stay right there."

"Not moving," I said, and watched him as he hurried inside. I gave a quick glance to the houses around us -- shutters closed in their upper floors, lights off -- and tried to arrange the stadium blanket and my bathrobe to give us a little privacy.

Noel returned with the bottle of mineral oil, and climbed onto me again, straddling my hips. He held onto the back of lounge chair and kissed me, and I made my fingers slick blindly, occupied with kissing him back. I slid a finger into him and he grunted, low, and rested his forehead on mine as he rocked against my hand. I pulled the blanket up to his waist and stroked his side, his face, his prick, and whispered again and again, "You're beautiful. You're so beautiful."

In a few minutes he said, "I'm ready," and held himself over me as I withdrew my fingers. He took hold of my cock and lowered his body, and his teeth sank into his lip as he took me in. "Shit, you're big," he muttered with a breathy laugh, and I laughed myself, joyful. 

"You feel like paradise," I answered, and he held my face and kissed me like he couldn't help himself.

Noel pulled back and held himself straight, and rode me firm and fast, his head falling back and his eyes closed in bliss. I ran my hands over him -- his skin was warm from sex, cool from the night air -- and kissed his chest. He was delicious.

As his rhythm grew faster and his moans grew louder, I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him closer so I could kiss his mouth. He shook in my arms, his hands plucking at my shoulders or raking through my hair, and gasped against my lips. I held him tighter, shoved into him harder, my good foot on the stone pavers to give me something to push against, and he grasped the back of the lounge chair. His prick, hot and quivering, rubbed against my stomach.

He cried out. He tried to stifle it against my mouth, but I suspected anyone awake would have heard it even through the rain. I pushed into him a few more times before I, too, shouted into the night.

We curled against each other. Noel trembled, his legs folded on either side of my body, and his hands shook as they stroked my chest. I pulled up the blanket to cover him and turned my face to the rain.

\-----

Eventually we had to go inside -- wash up, warm ourselves, hang the stadium blanket over the gallery railing so it would air out. I put my tin of supplies away in my bag and got into bed, and dressed in pajama pants and a cardigan before getting out my sketchbook and pencils.

"Where do you want me?" Noel said.

I looked up from digging through my bag, and the breath caught in my throat at the sight of him. He wore a soft, white bathrobe, his hair mussed and his skin glowing. I hadn't realized how tense his usual expression was until I saw how relaxed he was now, like he was made from clay and the artist had smoothed out all the lines.

"Anywhere," I said. "You can even lie on the bed, if you want."

"Shouldn't I pose?"

"Anyway you want to be will be your pose," I said, and pushed myself up so I could hold his face and give him a quick kiss. "I want you to be comfortable."

He smiled then, the way I loved, and nodded to the staircase. "Let's go downstairs."

We went to the sofa in the great room and he curled into the corner, the bathrobe open to frame his shoulders and chest. I sat at the other end and opened my sketchbook to a blank page, and said, "You can talk if you want," as I began to draw.

Noel didn't speak at first, only watched me through half-closed eyes as he rested his head on the sofa back. Rain continued tapping on the windows, and the only other sound was the scratch of my pencil on the paper.

I turned the page and started a new drawing, just of his hands as they rested on the fabric of the bathroom, when Noel said, soft even though there was no one to overhear, "You make me want to do things I've never done before."

I smiled, not looking up from my sketch. "Like sex in the rain?"

"Mm," he said, "just like that." He resettled his head, then said, "I've never brought anybody here, either."

"Oh?" I said. "No one comes to your island?"

"There hasn't been anyone else I've wanted on my island." He touched my foot with his, and I tucked my pencil in my sketchbook so I could capture his toes.

"I'm very honored, you know. Do you want to see what I've drawn?"

"Yes." He moved to lay his head in my lap and I gave him the sketchbook, and he turned slowly through the pages as I played with his hair.

I'd never done anything like this either. Even when Oliver and I had spent a stolen afternoon at his house, it had been only for a few hours while Elizabeth got her hair done and the children were at a party or lessons. Falling asleep beside my lover, knowing they would be there in the morning -- knowing I would be there in the morning -- it simply hadn't been possible during most of my life. 

And most of the time, I hadn't missed it -- though I could admit that I had been telling myself I didn't need it since Daniel.

God, Daniel. I felt a small guilty twinge when I realized I hadn't thought about him for days. At seventeen, I had vowed to never forget him and to think about him every day, but if I hadn't seen a photo of Daniel recently I doubt I would have been able to picture the details of his face -- the freckles on his cheeks, the little scar above his eyebrow from a games of stickball gone awry when we were kids, the way he would smile with one side of his mouth before it spread to the other.

Noel lay the sketchbook open on his chest. "Malcolm?" He reached up to touch my face. 

Brought out of my reverie, I smiled at him. "What do you think of the pictures?"

"They're very fine. When you say you only do caricatures you're really doing yourself a disservice."

"You have to know the rules in order to break them," I said. "What about the pictures of you?"

His eyes blinked slowly, like a contented cat's. "I like the way you see me. It's like I'm your hero."

"You are," I said. "You amaze me. You're the bravest person I've ever met."

Noel got onto his knees and took my face in his hands, and we kissed, sweetly, deeply, as he whispered, "My sweet Malcolm, my good, kind, lovely, Malcolm." 

It made me shiver in the best possible way -- but it made me wonder, too, if he would still find me good and sweet if he truly knew me.

I owed it to him. I had to tell him everything.

He stopped kissing me and pulled away a little to rest our foreheads together, he whispered, "D'you want to go back to bed?"

I said, "Can I tell you a story first? A true story?"

"Of course," as he started to stroke my hair.

I nodded, and took a moment to get my thoughts in order. I hadn't told anyone all of this, not even Zachary.

I took a deep breath. "When I was a boy, my best friend was named Daniel Hoffman. His family lived down the street from mine, and we knew each other from when we were tiny. We did everything together. He went to my parents' school so we'd eat lunch together and play at recess, and he'd come to play with me on Sundays as soon as his family got home from church. I had a little gang of friends, but it always felt incomplete to me unless Daniel came along.

"I suppose it was inevitable that we fell in love. He was my first kiss, my first sweetheart -- my first everything."

Noel was still watching me, his expression serious. The room was dark except for a single lamp and the occasional flashes of lightning, dim through the upstairs windows.

"We were about fifteen when we started having sex," I said. "I thought it was so romantic, stealing our moments in alleys or the back seat of my father's car. I adored him. I thought we'd be together for the rest of our lives."

Noel's expression grew even more somber, like he knew what was coming.

I said, carefully even though it was going to hurt no matter what I did, "One afternoon, just a few months before we were to graduate from high school, we got together in his parents' garden shed. I had just gotten accepted to U.C. Berkeley, and I was happy and full of plans. We both wanted to be teachers, so we would be taking a lot of classes together, and I wanted us to get rooms together and live together openly. I was so excited about our future. He kept trying to change the subject, but I couldn't talk about anything but what we would do once we were finally in college and could live the way we wanted to.

"I had to go home before suppertime, so I kissed him and told him I'd talk to him later, and he just -- he looked resigned and said, 'See you.'

"Then ... then later that evening a police car came to their house, and then a van from the county morgue. All the neighbors came out onto the street to see what had happened. We thought Mr. Hoffman had had a stroke, but -- it was Daniel. His father had found him in the shed. Daniel had hung himself."

Noel made a softly shocked, empathetic sound, and pressed himself closer to me as his fingers pushed into my hair. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply a few times, and placed my palm on Noel's chest, where I could feel his heart beating. He was warm and solid, alive, in my arms and glad to be there. It grounded me, feeling him with me like that. It kept me from openly weeping.

When I knew I could speak steadily, I said, "He didn't leave a note. His mother asked me once if I knew why he did it. I couldn't tell her, but I know -- he killed himself because of me. He couldn't live the life I wanted for us. His parents would never accept us. The world would never accept us. I couldn't see it then -- I was too young and idealistic, I thought we could be happy -- but -- I see it now. He couldn't live the life he'd be forced into and he couldn't live the way he wanted to, and so he -- he --" I pressed my face against Noel's neck.

Noel held me tight and kissed me, murmuring, "Sh, sunshine, sh, now."

It took a few minutes for me to gain control myself enough to speak, and when I had, I said, "That's who I am, Noel. I'm not what you think. I'm not good. I'm the man who killed his first love."

"Malcolm," Noel said, "look at me." I pulled back so I could -- my beautiful Noel, noble and strong, eyes full of compassion as he gazed at me. He said, "Some people -- they can't live in the world. It's not because of other people -- it just is what it is. It sounds to me like that's why Daniel did it. Not because of anything you said or did. He just -- he just couldn't live in the world anymore. If he had wanted to stay, he would have stayed."

I opened my mouth to protest, and then closed it. Daniel had always been of a melancholy nature -- his mother referred to it as "the glooms" -- but I had been too young to understand what it meant. 

But I was older now. During the war, I'd met men with a death wish, some of whom didn't care who they took with them. I knew the difference between brave and ready to die.

For years, Daniel had been ready to die, until he couldn't stay anymore.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Noel kissed me and leaned our foreheads together. His fingers combed through the hair at the back of my head. He whispered fiercely, "And, Malcolm -- I will _never_ be ashamed of you."

My eyes stung and my throat closed, and I held him to me tight, not even kissing him but just clutching him to me. Noel whispered, "It's all right, sunshine. It's all right," and held me too, and while I didn't cry I felt as relieved as if I had.

I will always miss Daniel. I will always love him. But though I didn't know it then, I no longer blamed myself for his death, and it made me feel alive.

\-----

I woke to the sight of Noel in his boxers and an undershirt as he tidied up the bedroom. The morning light was still pale, filtered through rain clouds, and I could hear the soft tap of raindrops on the windows and walls.

Noel puttered about, humming as he folded his trousers over a hanger and put yesterday's clothes away in his bag. I watched him through my lashes, enjoying the quietude. I wanted to draw him again; I wanted to draw him as he had been last night, his head thrown back and his body on the verge of orgasm; I wanted to draw him like this, too, rumpled, contented, unguarded.

I wanted to draw him in every way possible. I wanted to draw him reading, cooking, playing with Caleb, at the piano, his eyes closed as he listened to me read or to music on the radio. I wanted to draw him every way that he could be.

I said softly, "You're beautiful when you're domestic," and he huffed.

"Good morning to you, too." Noel came back to bed and lounged on his side, his head pillowed on his arm. "Would you prefer to cook breakfast today or go out?"

"Either," I said. "Though I'd love to get beignets. I think I'm addicted to them."

"They are good," he said, idly stroking my arm. 

I murmured, "Unless you'd rather stay in," and his eyes met mine.

"Tempting," he said, and then kissed my forehead and pushed himself off the bed. "I want a bath first."

"Okay," I said, though I lay in bed a few minutes more as I watched Noel gather some clothes and get his toiletries bag.

He paused. "Coming with me?"

"Yes!" I gabbed my cane.

It was easier for me to sit in the tub than to stand in a shower, so Noel filled the deep tub to over our waists and we used the detachable shower head to wet each other down. I washed his hair and his back and he washed mine, and we relaxed for a while in the hot water as Noel leaned against my chest, idly stroking my kneecap as I played with his earlobe or drew shapes on his bicep.

It also gave me a view of his scars that I had never taken before. Even before the war, scars and wounds were a common sight, the aftermath of bar brawls or a spouse who was too free with his fists; one careless candle or kerosene lamp, and an otherwise healthy child would bear the markings for the rest of their life. After the war, vets were everywhere, without limbs or moving stiffly due to unseen wounds.

So, I was no stranger to the signs of pain. I knew Noel's story, of course, he had told me months before. Still, I was not prepared for the actual sight of his scars. They were white with age, up and down his spine, most centered at the sensitive dip just above his waist, the number of them enough to tell me that Emmanuel likely would have killed him that day if Simon had not intervened. 

My fingertips wanted to trace along them, learn them like a new topography. I moved my hand to rest on the rim of the tub instead.

Noel murmured, "It's all right, Malcolm. Ignoring them won't make them go away."

I lay my hand on his shoulder blade instead. He had worked for this strength -- I had to admire it, especially in contrast to the scars. "They break my heart."

"Do you still want to draw me?"

"Always," I said with a kiss to the base of his neck.

Noel took my hand and pulled my arm over his shoulder, and leaned back against me. I held him with both arms and my good leg, cocooning him. "Then draw me," he whispered, his head turned back so he could kiss my throat. "Draw me, scars and all."

\-----

It was closer to lunchtime than breakfast by the time we got out of the house. We left the Jaguar in the garage and took the streetcar into the heart of the Quarter, to a cafe where we could get beignets and chicory coffee. I held Noel's arm while we walked, as usual, and he held his umbrella over our heads.

Normally I would have preferred eating outside at one of their sidewalk tables, but since the weather was still so wet the cafe had put away all of their bistro tables, and we were seated at a table near the front window. I watched the passers-by who shielded their heads with umbrellas or folded newspapers or the occasional sou'wester. Noel perused the menu for a few minutes, then put it aside.

"I'd like to go by the 4/4 club this afternoon. The band will probably be there to rehearse for tonight."

"Are you planning to sit in with them?"

He shrugged. "Probably not. But it'll be nice to say hello, since we're in the city."

I nodded, still watching the rain -- which was on its way from a shower to a full-blown storm. I said, "If this keeps up, I wouldn't mind staying in again tonight."

"Mm," soft. "We could do that."

"I'll cook," I said, and glanced at him, pleased, when he laughed.

\-----

Breakfast eaten, we left the cafe and took another streetcar to Bourbon Street. Neon-lit "Open" signs reflected off the wet pavement, and only the most determined of tourists ventured out of their hotels. Sensible people stayed indoors -- listening to the radio, according to my fancy, or making hearty stew for supper.

The 4/4 club was quiet, its doors locked and "Closed" sign lit, but we went around the back of the building and Noel let us in through the service entrance. We could hear the piano and saxophone, and smiled at each other.

Inside, we found Cozy and Remy working on a song, which they broke off when they saw us. "Just checking in on things," Noel said as he shook their hands. "Please, don't let us interrupt you."

They went back to their instruments, and I sat at a table to listen while Noel let himself into the office to look over the books and sign a few checks. It wouldn't take long; Cozy was a good manager, and Noel trusted him.

The musicians were working on a Gershwin tune I knew, and my toe tapped along to the rhythm. Cozy stopped at the end of a verse and said, "You wanna join us, Malcolm?"

"I'm not really a musician," I said, holding up my hands.

"Your sister said you sing," Cozy replied, and Remy played a scale on the keyboard as if in encouragement.

"Do you really want to hear me croaking along?"

"We need a singer," said Remy. "Just for a little bit, or we'll get complacent."

"All right," I said. "No use in you getting complacent." I climbed onto the stage and Cozy gave me a chair. I wasn't very good at the piano, much to my mother's despair, and certainly I was no match for a professional like Remy. Put a guitar in my hands, and I did all right. Singing, though -- I had sung to Caleb a few times since I became his tutor, but that was all for years.

Remy gave Cozy a nod, and Cozy began to play the familiar notes to one of my favorites, "They Can't Take That Away From Me." I joined in at the verse. "'The way you wear your hat, the way you sip your tea ...'"

The door to the office was open, and in a moment Noel stood in the doorway, his hand on the doorframe and an unreadable expression on his face. I smiled at him and sang, "'The memory of all that, no, they can't take that away from me.'"

He folded his arms across his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. 

"'The way your smile just beams, the way you sing off key,'" I sang. "'The way you haunt my dreams, no, no, they can't take that away from me.'"

Noel's face softened, and he began to smile.

'"We may never, never meet again,'" I sang, "'on the bumpy road to love. Still I'll always, always keep the memory of ... The way you hold your knife. The way we danced 'til three. The way you changed my life. No, no, they can't take that away from me. They can't take that away from me.'"

Remy and Cozy brought the song to its end, and Noel, along with the few other members of the staff getting ready to open for the night, applauded us. Still, I said, "Now you know why I don't sing much."

"You sounded fine," Remy said. "You were on key."

"That's a low bar to clear," I replied, and he waved a hand at me. 

"It's all about confidence, son."

"You sounded good," Noel said, and I felt myself blush.

"Well," I said, "thank you. Glad you enjoyed it."

He went back into the office, and I pulled the chair off the stage a little so I could listen to Remy and Cozy play until it was time to go.

On the streetcar on the way home -- empty except for us, due to the continuing rain, Noel held me around the shoulders and whispered, "Will you sing for me more?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes. Just ask."

"Sing for me," he said, and I laughed, thinking, well, I'd said I would. I leaned my head against his neck and sang, "'The cigarette that bears your lipstick traces, the airline tickets to romantic places..." reaching the end of the song by the time the streetcar stopped in Noel's neighborhood.

"More," Noel said, "more," so I sang as we undressed each other and sang between kisses, and sang as he straddled my hips. And when I had no more control of my voice, I sang his name, over and over, the sweetest lyrics I knew.

Noel watched me after, his fingers curling in my hair. I blinked at him sleepily.

He said softly, "It's only going to be harder after this."

"I know."

"But I -- I can't regret it. I've wanted you for so long."

I smiled then, and held his face for a kiss. "So have I. You have me for as long as you want me."

"What if I want you for a very, very long time?"

"Then you'll have me for a very, very long time." 

We kissed more, and he settled into my arms. I could feel his heart beating and every slow intake of breath. 

I knew it would be difficult from here on out. We wanted each other, needed each other. More than that, we had come to rely on each other and comfort each other. We enjoyed each other's company; I enjoyed the quirks of his mind, the kindness in his nature.

There were factors against us, the obstacles that men like us had faced for centuries; but at that moment, I had so much hope for us that I could have believed we had as much of a chance at happiness as Rene and Angelique, or as any other couple who would stand before a priest and promise to love, honor, and cherish.

I didn't make those promises to Noel then. Not out loud. 

\-----

Sunday morning, Noel and I woke about the same time. Perhaps he woke me or I woke him -- it doesn't matter, because we curled into each other and kissed, dozy and slow. Noel's skin was warm and sweet-smelling, and I snuffled against his chest and down his stomach to find every scent of him. Who knew when we would be able to do something like this again -- who knew how long it would be before we could even just sleep in the same bed. I wanted this imprinted on my memory. 

He took me, slowly, wordlessly, from behind as we kissed over my shoulder and I clutched at his hair. His hands swarmed over me, and his voice as he groaned my name was rough and delicious in my ear.

We were slow to rise after that, and ate a lazy breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs as we sprawled on the sofa. "I want to draw you more," I said and picked up the sketchbook that I had left on the coffee table. Noel laughed and shook his head, but didn't object, so I drew him as he was then, bare-chested and rumpled, a piece of toast in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. 

There was a little bit of repair work to do around the house, but as Noel had said, it was minor. A few scratches in the walls to be filled in and painted over, a few knobs on cabinets to tighten. Noel put the bedding into the washer, and we made sure all the dishes were washed and crumbs were swept up. The rain had finally tapered off, and there were occasional glimpses of sun through the overcast sky.

All through these little chores, Noel's expression grew more and more grim. I put down the small paintbrush I had been using on the walls, and joined him in the kitchen as he dried our breakfast dishes. I put an arm around his waist and rested my chin on his shoulder.

"Hey," I said and raked my hand over his hair. He put down the plate he was drying and leaned against me, his eyes closed. "If you want to stay, I'm sure we can find a way."

Noel shook his head. "Even if I were able to get Caleb out of Fidele, I'd need to find another house where he could have his own room and other children to play with. And that's if I decide to stay in New Orleans and not move out west."

"You still haven't decided that?"

"A fresh start sounds nice," Noel said. "But it's all moot right now, anyway." He kissed my cheek. "Go on, now. We need to pick up Caleb in an hour."

Our things packed and the house tidy, we took our bags out to the Jaguar. Noel paused as he got ready to lock the door between the house and the courtyard, and I took his hand and squeezed it.

"Fifteen minutes," Noel said softly. "Fifteen minutes by streetcar from this house to Simon's. That's the main reason I bought it. I didn't fall in love with it until I'd lived here for a while, but I do love it."

"It's a great house."

He gave it one more look, then held my face and kissed me. "Let's go. Caleb is waiting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit content and discussion of suicide.


	29. A Fair Face and a Good Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> “Do you still want to draw me?”
>> 
>> “Always,” I said with a kiss to the base of his neck.

The Christies and Caleb were waiting for us on the front porch of the Christies’ house. As soon as Noah brought the Jaguar to a stop Caleb ran down the steps and jumped into his arms. Noel scooped him up and kissed him. "Hi, peanut! Did you miss me? I sure missed you." Caleb nodded vigorously, his arms around Noel's neck, and Noel hugged him. "I'm going to have a word with Mr. and Mrs. Christie, and then we’ll go home."

He put Caleb down, and Caleb took my hand as we climbed the front steps together. "How was he?" Noel asked Alex. "Did he behave?"

"He was very good," Alex said. "Don't you agree, Samuel?"

Samuel nodded, grinning at Caleb, and Caleb grinned back.

"The boys like playing let's pretend that they're knights," Julia put in. "I've been reading them Round Table stories at bedtime."

"Caleb knows the Round Table stories well," Noel said. "I keep expecting him to lose interest but he hasn't yet. All in good time, I suppose." Caleb leaned his head on Noel's arm and Noel stooped to kiss his hair. "And then you'll move onto -- what? Dinosaurs, maybe? Cowboys?" Caleb tapped his fingers on Noel's arm, as near an answer as we would get, and Noel quietly laughed. "All right, peanut. Let's get you home."

"We’re happy to watch him again anytime," said Julia. "We love having him."

We thanked the Christies profusely, and got Caleb and his bag in the Jaguar. "Mr. Malcolm and I had fun too," Noel said as he pulled out of the drive. "We fixed the house up nice and pretty for the next person who'll rent it from me." Caleb leaned against Noel's arm again, and looked up at him. "Do you remember my house?" Noel said. "I know you didn't come there very often when you lived in the city." Caleb nodded, a thoughtful look on his face, making me wonder how much of his life he remembered from before the fire.

Which reminded me, and I asked Noel softly, over Caleb's head, "Where are the photos Dorian developed for you?"

"I have them at my office," Noel said. "I've been meaning to get frames for my favorites, and an album for the rest. I just haven't made the time." He looked down at Caleb. "I should do that soon."

I reached over Caleb to pat Noel's shoulder, too.

Mrs. Bell was waiting for us at the top of the front steps when we arrived at Fidele, and came down to meet us in the carriage house. Caleb ran to her, and she picked him up and gave him a kiss as Tumnus appeared from nowhere to twine around her ankles, meowing. "Hello, sugar," Mrs. Bell said. "It's good to have you home. Do you want some supper? It'll be ready soon." Caleb nodded vigorously and then wiggled out of her arms so he could scoop up Tumnus and rub his face in her fur.

Mrs. Bell looked from boy and kitten to us, and an odd look crossed her face, somewhere between a smile and worried frown. "You look like a courting couple," she said in a low voice. Noel and I glanced at each other -- it was a fair assessment, I thought, but I understood her worry.

"We were just--" Noel began.

"Don't try to fool me, Noel Thibodeaux. I've known you since the day you were born." She exhaled slowly. "Try not to look so -- satisfied -- around your father.You know he only needs the slightest excuse to turn you over the authorities."

"Just when I got you to stop frowning all the time," I remarked, and Mrs. Bell gave me a stern look in return.

“This is no joking matter, Mr. Malcolm. Don't forget Mr. Emmanuel is a judge in this parish. He has friends in high places, who aren't too high to play dirty.” She probably would have said more, but Caleb was listening, his eyes wide. She held out her hand to him. “Come along, sugar. Let’s get you tidied up for Grandfather.” They climbed the steps to go into the house.

The tension returned to Noel’s face as he hitched his bag back onto his shoulder. I took his arm and gave his elbow a squeeze. “Hey,” I said. “Don't look so gloomy. It’ll be all right.”

“How do you know?” Noel said wearily as we climbed the steps.

I waggled my fingers. “Magic.”

He huffed -- a sound I hadn’t heard from him all weekend -- and said, “Given everything else that has happened lately, magic is as good a reason as any.”

Once we were on our floor, Noel gave me my bag to attend to and took Caleb's to his room. As I unpacked my clothes and sketchbooks, I listened to the comforting sounds of Noel and Mrs. Bell chatting down the passageway.

Footsteps caused me to look up, just in time to see Emmanuel passing by my doorway. Despite my words to Noel, the sight made my heart slam against my ribs. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them, grasped my cane, and went down the passageway too. I could be a buffer between Noel and Emmanuel, if nothing else.

"Mr. Thibodeaux," I said, and heard Mrs. Bell and Noel fall silent, "did you have a good weekend?"

He stopped outside the doorway to the nursery, and turned to raise an eyebrow at me. "Carmichael," he replied.

"Father," Noel said from within Caleb's room, and he got to his feet from where he'd been sitting with Caleb and Tumnus on the floor.

Emmanuel's gaze swept over the room, and his face softened a fraction at the sight of Caleb. "Did he behave himself on his visit?" he said to Noel.

"He did." Noelput his hand on Caleb's shoulder. "Julia said they love having him over."

"Good." Emmanuel's gaze travelled over the room again, as if he had never given it a proper look before. "And you?"

Noel blinked, then said slowly, "The house is ready for my next tenant."

"Good," Emmanuel said again. "Well. When is supper on the table, Mrs. Bell?"

"At six, Mr. Emmanuel," Mrs. Bell said. "We're having roast chicken tonight."

"Good, good." He gave us all one more look, then went past me back to his wing of the house.

"What was that about?" Noel murmured as I came into the room to sit on the bed beside him.

"It went much better than I expected," I said, and opened my arms to let Caleb climb into my lap. "Back to our regular lessons tomorrow, little man. Do you think you'll be ready for it?"

Caleb nodded and lay his head on my shoulder, and I smiled and patted his back. Noel looked at me like he wished he could do the same, so I curled my little finger around his -- all I could offer at the moment, but from the way he exhaled it seemed to be enough.

 

\----

 

As January became February, there was plenty to occupy my mind. I reread the ledger as I had promised Angelique I would do, and took note of any reference that might be to the woman we believed to be Justine. Fabric, jewels, the materials for a house -- there were references that pre-dated his wedding date to Charlotte, but they could have been part of his courtship. We didn't know enough of their timeline to say for certain. We had the date of their marriage and the date of Charlotte's death, and the last, heartbreaking entry in the ledger was stark: "Casket. Tomb. Shroud." All pages after this were blank.

"I doubt Achille kept a record of his mistress in his household accounts," Noel said. "It's more likely that he kept a separate book of her expenses."

We sat at the library study table, as we so often did, opposite each other and surrounded by books and papers. I would rather have sat beside him, but despite the occasional signs of patience from Emmanuel -- which Noel didn't believe for a moment -- we still wouldn't take the chance of touching where he might see.

When he was away, it was another matter. We held hands, we let our legs intertwine as we shared a cigarette in the garden, we might even lie together for a few minutes at bedtime.

It was agony not to touch him as much as I wanted to, but at least I could see him and talk to him for hours. Once Caleb was put to bed, we met in the library, and often were awake until midnight or later because it was so hard to part. If there was anything that should have triggered Emmanuel's suspicions, it was that.

"Does it ever bother you," I said, thumbing through the fragile pages of the ledger once again, "knowing what your ancestors got up to?"

"Of course it does," Noel said. "You want to believe your family were good people, but acknowledging that they weren't is part of growing up. To be honest, when Emmanuel sent me away I realized I could never expect anything better. I'll respect the dead the same way I do the living -- if they deserve it."

I closed the ledger. The eighteenth-century French was giving me a headache, anyway. "Do you think you'll ever forgive Emmanuel?"

"No," Noel said without hesitation. "But I don't think he wants my forgiveness, anyway. It's all about appearances for him, and I've no interest in playing that game. And no more pushing us to have a happy family moment, all right? Please?"

"All right," I said. "I suppose I hope someday he'll see you the way you really are, and love you for it."

Noel didn't reply for a moment or two, his mechanical pencil twirling in his fingers. He said quietly and unexpectedly, "Tell me something about your family."

That, I could do, and happily. I was always willing to distract him. "Have I ever told you about my family's distillery?"

"You've mentioned it, but tell me more." He folded his hands under his chin.

"The family has owned a distillery since 1852, that makes a whiskey called Glenfinnan, named after the village in Scotland my ancestors came from," I said. "Then when Prohibition came, my grandfather and uncles decided to make fruit soda pop and flavored seltzer water, so we could keep the distillery open and our employees paid. But that was really more of a front than the primary product -- whiskey was still produced, just under-the-table. I have no idea how they sold it, to be honest, but Grandfather was a canny old gent. I remember meeting 'friends' of his who wore dark suits and never gave their full names.

"Anyway, the day Prohibition was repealed, my uncle David came to the distillery, stopped all production, and brought all the employees together. He opened a few bottles of whiskey he'd had in storage since Prohibition had passed, and when every employee had a glass he said, 'Here's to you, boys! We never have to make another batch of kiddie drink again!'"

Noel laughed, as I hoped he would. "Your Scottish ancestors must have spent a lot of time stealing their neighbors' cows, just for the thrill of it."

"Our family motto should be 'We make trouble,'" I agreed.

 

\----

 

One Saturday in early February, I looked out the window to see Samuel Christie wandering listlessly by himself in the garden. I went outside to meet up with him. "Samuel? What's the matter?"

He shrugged a shoulder, looking down at his feet, and then said, "Caleb doesn't like me anymore."

"Oh, honey," I said, and put my hand on his shoulder. "Let's sit a minute." We went to one of the wrought iron benches, and when we sat he leaned against my side. "Did you have an argument?"

He shook his head.

"Did he push you, or hit you?"

Again, Samuel shook his head. "He wanted to play with his other friend."

"Who's his other friend? Uncle Noel?"

"No, Mr. Malcolm," Samuel said patiently. "His friend the lady."

"Do you mean Dinah? Or maybe Mrs. Bell?"

Samuel sighed heavily. "The _lady_. She doesn't speak words I understand and sometimes she's a little girl, and she's nice to Caleb but sometimes her face is mean." He scowled, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips sticking out, then his face smoothed. "Like that."

"Do you know her name, Samuel?" I asked softly.

He shook his head, his eyes welling up. "I don't know _anything_."

I hugged him around his shoulders, and said, "Should we see if your Papa is ready to take you home? You don't have to stay if it makes you sad."

Samuel nodded, so I rose, carrying him with one arm, and we went inside to find Alex and Noel.

 

\----

 

This conversation worried me, but I didn't want to bring it to Noel yet, until I had something more to tell him. I watched Caleb even more closely, feeling guilty that maybe I had been ignoring him due to my preoccupation with Noel.

As far as his studies went, he was still learning by leaps and bounds. His pictures grew more and more recognizable, he wanted his usual stories, he hopped with excitement when Noel asked him if he'd like to look at some stars before bed. His handwriting was improving, as was his reading in both English and French, and when I spoke to him in French he understood. His psychologist didn't mention to Noel she thought anything amiss.

But it seemed to me, now that I was paying attention, that Tumnus wasn't in his room or curled into his bed as often as she used to be. He would listen to his half-hour of radio every night, but it seemed like he was tolerating the routine more than looking forward to it. And there was the episode with Samuel, and when the next Saturday approached Alex said, "Samuel wants to do something else this week than play with Caleb. I'm sorry, Noel."

"Did they have a fight?" Noel asked me.

"Not that I can figure out," I said. "But something's up."

That Saturday, I drew in the vestibule while Caleb played on the stairs. Each wing of Fidele had its own staircase, and usually he would play on the stairs of his wing so he could easily reach his toys in the schoolroom and nursery. He had invented a game: he ran up a staircase and let a rubber ball bounce down from the first landing to the vestibule while he chased after it, and then moved to the next staircase to repeat the process.

I listened to the bouncing ball and Caleb's footsteps as he ran up and down the stairs, and the sound of Tumnus's claws on the wood as she followed him. Scamper up, bounce down, scamper down.

And then there was bouncing down.

And bouncing down.

I turned slowly, to see Caleb at the foot of the staircase behind me, unmoving, as Tumnus crouched on the carpet, her tail like a brush, her eyes enormous, her ears alert.

The ball bounced down the steps, slower than it had before, as if someone was pushing it off each riser with a finger.

My skin goosepimpled. The air was full of whispers. I said softly, "Caleb? Who's your friend?"

Caleb jerked like I had abruptly woken him, and whirled to look at me as the ball rolled to a stop at his feet. Tumnus backed away from the ball until she was hidden under one of the armchairs.

"Caleb," I said again, "who are you playing with?"

He picked up the ball and fidgeted with it.

"I won't be angry," I said, still keeping my voice soft. "I just want to know the name of your friend."

Caleb dropped the ball and came to me, crawled into my lap and put his arms around my neck. I hugged him and rested my chin on his head. "Okay, honey. We don't have to talk about it."

I told Noel about this incident that night after supper, and why Samuel hadn't come to play that day. Noel listened with a troubled expression, and said, "You think it's our ghost?"

"I do. I know she's tried to make contact with him before. She's just being more careful now."

Noel rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I don't know what to do," he said wearily, letting his hands fall to the table.

"We could ask Angelique or Dorian," I said. "They have some experience in this sort of thing."

"In holding seances," said Noel. "Not in ridding a house of ghosts. _Can_ one even rid a house of ghosts? Have you ever heard of such a thing happening?"

"No," I said, "but I'm really new at this, and it wasn't that long ago I was sure it meant I was losing my mind."

Noel rubbed the back of my hand, though his expression was preoccupied. "I think the only time you'd need to question your sanity is if this felt normal," he said, and then met my eyes and gave me a faint smile. "And then, of course, if it felt normal you wouldn't question your sanity."

"So am I sane or not?"

"Maybe," Noel said, and it was my turn to huff with wry laughter.

"But what should we do about Caleb?"

"I don't know," Noel said. "If I started sleeping in his room again, do you think that would make it worse or better?"

I was honest. "It might not make any difference at all."

 

____

 

Rene and Angelique's wedding was scheduled for Valentine's Day -- on a Thursday this year, an odd time for a wedding to me, but apparently employers were lenient about letting people off for such a momentous occasion even mid-week. It was, Rene had told me, Angelique's girlhood dream to marry on Valentine's Day; otherwise he would have preferred a shorter engagement. "But ma belle gets what she wants," he said with a shrug, and I had to agree -- happy wife, happy life, as the saying goes.

He also apologized to me that I wasn't one of the groomsmen, but I certainly wasn't going to complain or feel neglected since his best man was Dorian and his groomsmen were his and Angelique's brothers. "Would you read a poem at the ceremony?" Rene said. "Angelique likes poems," and so I went through my books to find a good one.

"There's always Shakespeare," Noel said when I fretted it to him about it, and I thought that would be a fine last resort if I didn't find anything more original.

But find one I did, and that Thursday morning Noel and I put on good suits and went into the city for the ceremony. Since Rene was divorced, there would be no church wedding; instead, they would marry at the fountain rotunda in City Park.

When we arrived at the park, white chairs set up in front of the rotunda, decorated with broad white ribbons and a mix of pink and red flowers: rosebuds, carnations, peonies, more that I couldn't name. The Gaspard and Breaux women, from the tiniest granddaughter to the bride and grooms' mothers, flitted around in red and pink dresses, all wearing circlets of pink rosebuds in their hair, and the men of the family had red and pink boutonnieres in the lapels of their light winter suits. A red runner guided the way down the aisle, and a zydeco band played a jaunty version of "La Vie En Rose."

We were seated near the front so I wouldn't have to walk far for my reading, and the Gaspard aunts all kissed our cheeks even though most of them met Noel only once. I finally met Angelique's parents, both dark-eyed and slim people like she was, Mr. Beaux's hair pure silver, Mrs. Breax with a circlet of rosebuds on her still-brown hair. She laughed a bit when I admired the circlet, and said, "Angel has asked all of her family and bridal party to wear them. I feel like a girl again."

"You look lovely," I said, and she waved a hand at me, with a laugh and a, "Thank you, sugar."

They moved on to talk to other guests, and Noel murmured, "They like you," his hand curling around mine.

"I like them, too," I said.

Before much longer the music changed to "As Time Goes By," and both the mothers of the bride and groom were walked down the aisle on the arms of groomsmen. Rene and the justice of the peace took their places at the end of the aisle. Rene looked sharp in a lightweight suit of pale gray, with a red tie and red boutonniere; he stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his expression calm.

The music paused for a few minutes as one of Angelique's sisters moved to stand with the band, and as she began to sing, "The Way You Look Tonight," we all rose and turned to watch Angelique walk down the aisle on the arm of her father.

Rather than traditional white, Angeliquehad chosen to wear pale pink satin, with darker pink netting under the knee-length skirt to give it shape. She wore no veil; instead a circlet of pink rosebuds rested on her braided hair like her mother and bridesmaids, and a pair of curls framed her face. A single pink pearl on a chain hung around her neck, and she bore a bouquet of red and pink roses, tightly bound with a wide white ribbon. She looked original and fresh, the epitome of a sweet bride.

I felt a stinging in my throat as I watched her go by -- happiness for her and Rene, of course, but also a bit of regret that I would never have the chance to walk down the aisle toward the man I loved.

As if he knew what I was thinking, Noel took my hand again and intertwined our fingers loosely. When I looked at him his eyes were full, but he still gave me the smile I liked best.

At the end of the aisle, Mr. Breax held Angelique's face in both hands and kissed her forehead, and then put her hand in Rene's. He was already teary-eyed, and Angelique quietly laughed as she wiped the tears from Rene's face.

As the justice of the peace began the ceremony, I wondered if this was anything like Rene's first wedding before the war, or if the feeling of it was different now -- no haste, no uniforms, no knowledge that he would soon leave for another country and might never come back. But he had come back, and while that marriage hadn't lasted he had found happiness with this girl, and everything I knew about them said they'd get it right this time.

And I thought, _Love is better the second time around._

The thought made me swallow hard and look down at our joined hands. Noel squeezed my fingers and gave me a questioning look when I met his gaze, and I smiled to reassure him.

Then came the readings. First was Rene's father, who read "How Do I Love Thee" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I looked down at my little book of poems as an appreciative murmur went through the crowd, and wondered if my selection would be too odd. No, I thought, this crowd was the most accepting I had ever met -- from the faces of all colors among the wedding guests to the fact no one cattily remarked on Angelique not wearing white.

My name was next in the program. I stood, cane in one hand and book in the other, and went to the microphone beside the band. I opened the book and said, "I'm going to read a poem called 'This Marriage,' by Rumi." I cleared my throat and began to read.

"May these vows and this marriage be blessed.

May it be sweet milk,

this marriage, like wine and halvah.

May this marriage offer fruit and shade

like the date palm.

May this marriage be full of laughter,

our every day a day in paradise.

May this marriage be a sign of compassion,

a seal of happiness here and hereafter.

May this marriage have a fair face and a good name,

an omen as welcome as the moon in a clear blue sky.

I am out of words to describe

how spirit mingles in this marriage."

I admit, I had to stop a few times and gather myself. I had cried at Zachary's wedding and both of Mary Kate's, and I would probably embarrass Duncan and weep at his, too. You want the people that you care about to be happy and loved, and of course, but you want it for yourself, as well. For so many years I had never thought I would have it for myself.

I felt a lot closer to having it than I had before.

When I finished the poem and looked up at Rene and Angelique, they both looked pleased and touched. Angelique whispered, "Thank you," and her smile deepened as I kissed her cheek before going back to my seat.

Noel took my hand again, and reached over to wipe the wetness from the corner of my eye.

 

\----

 

While the newlyweds and bridal party had their pictures beside the fountain and in front of the prettiest trees, park staff moved the chairs and placed tables for the bridal supper. The wedding guests milled around, chatted, and drank champagne, and Noel got one of the staff members to give him a chair for me.

Dorian ambled over to join us when the photographer was done with the bridal party. "I liked the poem," he said as he hunkered down beside me. "It was a good choice."

"Thank you," I said. "I worried that it might be too modern, for all that Rumi is a thirteenth-century mystic."

"May I see the book?" he asked so I handed over the slim volume, and he turned through a few pages, a serious expression on his face. I found Noel's gaze and he gave me wry smile.

"Not many opportunities for poetry in law school, I take it," he remarked.

"Not many, no," Dorian said absently. He paused on a particular page, then read aloud, "'I want to see you. Know your voice. Recognize you when you first come ’round the corner. Sense your scent when I come into a room you’ve just left. Know the lift of your heel, the glide of your foot. Become familiar with the way you purse your lips then let them part, just the slightest bit, when I lean in to your space and kiss you. I want to know the joy of how you whisper 'more.'" He looked up at me. "Thirteenth century, huh?"

I shrugged. "The human experience never really changes."

Dorian gave back the book and rose. "Now I wish I'd tried harder to find a date." He glanced at Noel and smiled wryly, and said, "You two have fun tonight."

"We will," I said.

Angelique's maid of honor came to whisper in his ear. Dorian nodded and went to the microphone, and said into it, "If everyone will take your seats, please. Everyone, please take your seats." One of the staff moved my chair to the table, and Noel and I went to sit.

Once all the shuffling was done and only the head table was empty, Dorian said, "It is my pleasure to present for the first time Rene Gaspard and Angelique Breaux-Gaspard!" and led the applause as the band played a flourish, and the newlyweds came up the path, hand-in-hand, beaming with happiness. They took their places at the head table, waiters came bearing full plates, and everyone began to eat.

Rene's sister Danielle and her sweetheart sat across the table from us. I hadn't seen her since Thanksgiving and knew she was attending teachers' college, and so we ended up talking through most of the meal about teaching qualifications and how to handle difficult students, while her sweetheart and Noel exchanged indulgent expressions.

It was sunset by the time supper was eaten and toasts and speeches were made. During his best man's speech, The park employees lit candles and turned on lamps along the paths as the area was cleared for dancing. As it had been at the Gaspards' before, everyone danced to the zydeco band, old and young, couples that were both men and both women, couples of mixed races -- it felt like watching the future, and filled me with hope.

As they had before, single girls gathered near us and gave us hopeful looks as they whispered to each other. Noel watched them with a slight frown, until I said, "Go on, I know you love it," and he huffed.

"Save a dance for me," he replied and left me to introduce himself to the girls.

He gave every one of the girls a turn, and as he danced I sketched -- not just Noel, though he was my favorite subject, but also the wedding guests as they laughed and talked and danced. It was a joyous day. I wanted to remember it.

Eventually Noel rejoined me at the table, his cheeks flushed from exertion and his eyes bright. I handed him the glass of water I'd managed to procure for him earlier, and he murmured, "Thanks," before having a long drink.

He put the glass on the table and leaned against me, his head on my shoulder. I patted his cheek. "Are you having a good time?"

"I'm having a marvelous time. Are you?"

"I am," I said. "I've just been drawing and watching people."

"One more dance," he said. He stood and held out his hand to me. This time I didn't hesitate -- I went onto the floor and into his arms, and we both exhaled as we relaxed against each other.

A moment or two of slow shuffling passed, and then Noel huffed. "This is the only place I've felt like I could do this. Even at the 4/4, I've never dared to ask another man to dance."

"Too many people there know you," I said.

"People know me here, too. The difference is I know they don't care if I dance with you or with any of the girls. Everywhere else, I can't be sure."

"I don't care who you dance with, either," I said, "as long as eventually you dance with me."

"You'll always be my last dance," Noel said.

I exhaled again, a quiver in my limbs. We kept making each other promises -- or rather Noel kept making promises to me, and I didn't always have a response. I wanted him to be my last dance, my every dance, and I hoped that every time we danced it would feel this sweet.

But I couldn't say so, not then. Not there. I had decided years ago not to make promises I didn't know I could keep, not when the world was so uncertain and men like us had to live in the shadows.

For now, for here, I held him tight and stroked the back of his neck, and breathed slow and even as he breathed with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fidele_ will be on hiatus for December and January so I can work on the climax. It will be published on a shorter schedule once that's done.


	30. The Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> For now, for here, I held him tight and stroked the back of his neck, and breathed slow and even as he breathed with me.

The wedding went on until the small hours of the morning, and we got back to Fidele closer to dawn than to midnight. The two light still burning were the two lamps on either side of the front door.

The dark gave me courage -- as soon as Noel parked the Jaguar in the carriage house I lunged for him, and kissed him with desperation and hunger. Noel held me by the hips and kissed me back, his mouth open, his hips arching up. I whispered, "Thank you for being my date," and he laughed low in his chest.

"Anytime, sunshine."

I kissed him more, then said, "Why do you call me that?"

He looked at me through his lashes. "What, 'sunshine'? Because you keep me warm."

For a moment, all I could do was blink -- and then I hugged him tight, my arms around his neck and my face in his hair. "You never stop amazing me."

His arms went around me. "It's just a nickname."

I lifted my head to look into his eyes. "I've never been anyone's sunshine before."

Noel held my face and stroked my cheekbones with his thumbs. "I find that hard to believe. Maybe I'm just the first one to say it out loud."

"Maybe," I said and kissed him, and was ready to settle in for a good long smooch when he laughed again, low, and pulled back.

"I want to check on Caleb before we get anything started. We've been gone all day."

"All right." I kissed his mouth quickly and we climbed out of the Jaguar.

We let ourselves into the house, and climbed the stairs as quietly as we could. The house made its usual sounds, creaking as the old floors settled, the tick of the grandfather clock. We went down the passage to the nursery, and Noel peeked in.

"There's no fairy light," he murmured and pushed the door open, then said, "Christ," and went into the room.

"What is it?" I whispered, my eyes not yet adjusted to the dark. "Noel?"

"Malcolm, turn on the light," Noel said in a tight voice, so I reached into the room to find the light switch.

The bed was empty.

The pillows and bedding were thrown to the floor, as were Caleb's Teddy bear and other stuffed animals. Tumnus was not in her basket. Noel knelt by the bed and peered underneath. "Caleb? Caleb, honey?" He reached under the bed, but instead of pulling out Caleb like I hoped, all that emerged was the cat. Her eyes were enormous and her ears alert, and her claws dug into Noel's chest as he cradled her in his arm.

"No Caleb?" I said.

"He's not under his bed." He looked away a moment with an uncharacteristically vehement, " _Fuck_."

"I'll wake Willie and Mrs. Bell," I said and started down the corridor.

Noel shoved his hand through his hair. "Not yet. Do you remember how to get to the slave cemetery?"

"I think so."

"We should check there first. I don't know why he went there the last time he left the house but he seems drawn to it."

His face was tensing again; I placed my hands on his cheeks and kissed him quickly. "We'll find him."

"If we don't -- I don't know. Oh, God." He lay his head on my shoulder.

"Don't panic," I said. "Don't panic. We'll find him. Come on." I took his hand and we went downstairs. "Maybe we should separate," I said. "You take the Jag and I'll take the truck--"

"Come with me." Noel gripped my hand tighter. "Please."

"Okay." I had a feeling, given the last time Caleb ran away, that Noel's theory was right -- but there were a lot of fields between there and here, in addition to roads and paths, and even a little bit of bayou. Gators could be out at this hour. Or worse creatures.

I grabbed a pair of flashlights from the kitchen. We hurried back to the Jaguar and Noel peeled out of the carriage house and out to the road. I rolled down the window and shouted, "Caleb! Caleb Thibodeaux!" as I shone the flashlight on the sides of the road.

It was the kind of dark that the night gets just before the sun comes up, darker than even midnight, and Noel slowed the Jaguar to a crawl so I could lean out of the window and shine the flashlight up and down the road, peering through the trees. We both called Caleb's name, and listened for something that could be a small boy rustling through the tall grass.

Noel whispered as we crawled along, "Malcolm ... Malcolm, what if we don't find him? What if we don't find him until it's too late?"

"Don't think that way," I said, still scanning the dark woods. "Don't even think it. If he's out here, we'll find him. If he's still at the house, we'll find him."

"But what if--"

"Noel," I said sternly and twisted back to him to take hold of his face and kiss him, hard. "Stop. We'll find him." I searched his face, and he gazed back at me, breathing through parted lips. He nodded, his face twisting, and then took my hand and kissed my palm.

"Okay." He put his foot on the gas again.

Finally we reached the gateway stones to the cemetery. Between the murmuring of the bayou and the swaying of the trees, I could hear the clinking of bottles in the bottle tree -- and a soft sound, like an echo, of someone singing low in old-fashioned French.

Noel stopped the car, and the singing stopped abruptly. Noel leapt out of the car with the other flashlight and cast it over the graveyard, shouting, "Caleb!"

A small, pale shape was huddled at the foot of the bottle-tree. Noel ran down the path and scooped him up. "Caleb," Noel said, his face buried in Caleb's neck. "Caleb, wake up. Oh, God, Caleb."

I stumped after him, flashlight in hand. Caleb made a little mewing sound and put his arms around Noel's neck. His face was streaked with tears and he was shaking with cold. I pulled off my suit jacket and wrapped it around him, while Noel wept and hugged him tight.

Finally Noel wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand, and said, "Come on, peanut, let's get you home."

***

Too upset to drive, Noel gave me the keys and cradled Caleb in his lap as I turned the Jaguar around on the track to take us back to Fidele. The light was turning gray, and when we broke out of the tree line and into the fields, the sky was streaked with pink and gold, the sun ready to break over the horizon.

"Is he okay?" I said, voice pitched low to keep from disturbing Caleb.

"Just cold and frightened, I think." Noel pressed his lips to Caleb's forehead. "Possibly feverish."

"We'll be back at the house soon."

Noel looked out the window. He said, "I never knew you could love someone this much and be constantly terrified for them at the same time."

"That's parenthood," I said. "It's terrifying and it's hard, and an equal number of people will say it's the best thing they ever did as those who say they wonder if it's all worth it."

Noel gave me a patient look. "How is this helpful, Malcolm?"

"What I'm saying is I know what you mean," I said. "Even if I haven't raised a child myself, I know what you mean." He didn't answer as he ran his hand over Caleb's thick curls, and I said, "I've spent my life watching people, watching the way they are with each other, and I know this for certain. There's no formula to parenthood. There's no one 'right way.' You just ... you just love them. What that means depends on the child, really. You just love them the best that you can."

Noel didn't speak for a few minutes. "I wish you could have met Grace."

"So do I."

Caleb lifted his head at that, and blinked up at Noel with big, sad eyes. Noel smiled a tiny bit and kissed his forehead. "When your daddy and I were boys," he said softly as Caleb lay his head on Noel's shoulder, "and your mommy was a girl, she lived in the house where Samuel and his family live now. We'd go running down the path to play with her whenever we could, because her house was always so nice to be in. We'd play in the treehouse, or go exploring in the bayou, or we'd read books on rainy days..." His fingers moved slow and soothing through Caleb's hair, and his voice was pitched low, and it wasn't long before Caleb's eyelids were drooping again.

"Is that true?" I whispered. "You and Simon played with Grace as children?"

"Every word." He looked out the window again. "I only know what a normal family is like because we had Grace's to compare ours to. There was always music in the house. Mrs. Upshaw would make cookies. Mr. Upshaw taught us how to ride bikes. Things like that, they never occurred to Emmanuel. Mrs. Bell and Willie did the best they could, but in the end they always had to do what Emmanuel said." He paused again, then said, "Grace's parents, they knew about Emmanuel. At least once that I know of, they tried to get us to stay with them long-term, but of course Emmanuel wouldn't allow it."

"Instead he sent you away."

Noel didn't answer for a while. "I suppose it's no surprise Simon married her. Childhood sweethearts and all that. If I'd been the kind of man who loved women, there might have been a rivalry, but it was never about who loved her more. She was always my sister."

"That's a sweet kind of love," I said.

"It was sweet," he agreed quietly, then added in a nostalgic tone, "The thing I remember most about Grace is that she always smelled like cookies. I don't even think it was perfume."

I smiled too -- but there was something, something else, that I couldn't quite put my finger on about it.

"Still," I said, "if being here is still painful for you, we could go. We could leave today and go anywhere. Atlanta, Baton Rouge. Seattle. Not even pack our things, just go. No more ghosts, no more Emmanuel."

Noel swallowed hard. "You ache for San Francisco," he said softly. "You miss it like an absent friend. You talk about it like a lover. It's your home."

I could only nod.

"Fidele isn't like that for me," Noel said, "but New Orleans is. It has everything I love -- the music that I play and the food that I eat. My family's bones are in the rocks and trees, their blood flows in the river."

"And your native language is poetry," I said, and he smiled a little.

"This city made me everything that I am. I know that I should leave. I know that I should start over somewhere new." He looked down at Caleb and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “When the thought of leaving hurts less than the thought of staying, then I'll go." He kissed Caleb's hair.

I reached over to to take his free hand, and held it until we pulled into the carriage house.

***

We reached the house soon after sunup, which meant the house was quiet and still. Noel carried Caleb to the bathroom to wash the dirt and mud off him, and I got clean pajamas from Caleb's room. While I was in there, I saw the rubber ball Caleb had been playing with on the stairs a few days before, now resting on the seat of the rocking chair. I tucked it away in a toy box.

Noel was bathing Caleb in the bathtub when I returned with the pajamas, Caleb sleepy, his head on Noel's chest. "Just a little bit longer, peanut," Noel murmured as he scrubbed Caleb's feet. "Then it's back to bed."

Caleb frowned deeply, his eyebrows furrowing, and then sneezed, which made him look even more unhappy. Noel chuckled and picked up a bottle of shampoo.

"Well, if you don't want to catch a cold, don't leave the house in the middle of the night," he said and began to wash Caleb's hair.

I left them and went back to Caleb's room, to remake his bed and check on Tumnus. The kitten was not in her basket, but wasn't hiding under Caleb's bed, either, so I figured she must be dozing somewhere in the house in the manner common to cats.

I had finished tidying the room when Noel came in, carrying Caleb, and he tucked Caleb into bed. "I'll stay with you until you fall asleep," Noel said as he sat on the floor beside Caleb's bed. "And we'll leave the door open. Close your eyes, Caleb."

Scowling, Caleb squeezed his eyes shut. Noel passed his hand over his face. I pulled over the rocking chair and began to stroke Noel's hair. After a few moments, Noel closed his eyes and leaned his head against my knee. I alternated between watching him and watching Caleb, and when Caleb's face relaxed and he seemed to be genuinely asleep, I whispered, "I don't suppose he indicated anything about why he left."

"Maybe we can get him to draw a picture later." He looked up at me. "He's got an appointment with his therapist today, but I'm thinking we should cancel it and let him sleep."

"Or she could help him say why he left again." Noel nodded thoughtfully, wearily, and I pushed my fingers deeper into his hair to scratch his scalp. "Noel. You can't sleep in Caleb's room every night again. It wore you out last time."

"Something frightened him enough to make him run away. I can't ignore that."

"We don't have to say 'something' anymore," I said. "It had to be Justine." I hesitated, then said, "And what if he left, not because he was frightened, but because he wanted to?"

Noel slumped back against the bed, despair in his eyes. "What does she _want_ from us?"

"Sh, Noel," I said and tilted up his face so I could kiss his mouth. "It'll be all right. We'll figure this out, and keep Caleb safe." I kissed him more and stroked his face, and after a minute or two he relaxed against my knee again.

"Thank you," he whispered and kissed my lips. "With Rene and Angelique on their honeymoon I'd hate to disturb them to ask about this, but Angelique is the only person I can think of who might have some answers."

"Not any of the voodoo shop proprietors in the city?" I asked with a slight smile, and Noel winced.

"I can just imagine Emmanuel's reaction to a voodoo practitioner in the house."

"We could talk to Dorian," I said. "He may know what to do, even if he's not a medium like Angelique."

He nodded slowly at that. "Would you call him? We could stop by his place after Caleb's appointment."

"I will."

"Thank you." He exhaled slowly. "I suppose we should start the day."

"Just a few minutes more," I said, because it felt so good to be close to him like this, his head resting on my knee and his hand stroking my calf.

After a few minutes, Tumnus pranced into the room and hopped onto Caleb's bed. She sniffed him and then curled herself into a ball against his chest. He put an arm over her, and she began to purr.

The quiet room, the purring cat, Noel's hand on my leg -- I nearly dozed off after such a long night, but my eyes were just drooping closed when I heard Emmanuel come out of his room in his wing, and Noel removed his hand and got to his feet.

"Now it's _really_ time to start the day."

"See you later," I said and pushed myself out of the rocking chair to go to my own room.

"See you," Noel replied.

***

Noel met with Dr. Dufresne after Caleb's therapy session, and came out of the office with Caleb in his arms, Caleb's head on his shoulder. "How are you doing, little man?" I murmured to Caleb as I patted his back. He frowned and turned his head away from me.

"Now, Caleb," Noel said, "don't be rude to Mr. Malcolm." He said to me, "Apparently Dr. Dufresne referred to his 'imaginary friend' and he's in a temper."

"Oh, dear," I said. Caleb turned his head back to look at me, still frowning, and I gently chucked his cheek. "We'll just not tell your friend about that, okay?"

He gave me a sulky look in response. I patted his back and said to Noel, "Maybe he'll feel better after lunch."

I had tried to call Dorian before we left Fidele without success; the phone line had failed again. I called him instead from a payphone during Caleb's session, and he said we should come once Caleb's therapy was done; he would feed us lunch and let Caleb play in the backyard while the adults talked.

"We're going to visit Mr. Dorian," Noel said to Caleb. "Does that sound like fun?"

Caleb shook his head. Noel and I both laughed in surprise, and Noel patted Caleb's head. "Well, we're doing it anyway. I don't know if there are any other children around -- they might be in school if they are -- but his house has a yard for you to ramble around in for a bit. That must sound all right."

Caleb shrugged and put his arms around Noel's neck, his head on Noel's shoulder, and we left the building to take a streetcar to Dorian's house.

As Noel had done, Dorian had taken an extra day to recover from the midweek wedding. He had still been dancing when we left -- the band played until 2 a.m., and when they rested there was always someone with a concertina or a guitar -- and I had been surprised at how cheerful he sounded on the phone, rather than hungover from the night's excesses.

Dorian greeted us just as cheerfully when we knocked on his door, shook our hands and tilted his head to peer at Caleb. "Caleb, do you like chocolate milk? I've got some chocolate milk for you, if you do."

Caleb nodded, perking up a bit, and we went inside to eat at Dorian's kitchen table.

On such short notice and Dorian's student budget, I didn't expect much, but he had prepared a ham-and-cheese sandwiches for us on thick, crusty bread, and peanut butter and jam for Caleb. He took one hesitant bite, and then ate eagerly, peanut butter and grape jam smearing on his face.

We adults ate more slowly and talked about Dorian's studies and Noel's work, until Caleb was done eating and gave Noel an expectant look. "You're excused," Noel said, and Caleb hopped out of his chair.

"You might like the yard," Dorian said. "Go on, Caleb, if you want."

Caleb ran outside, the door slamming behind him. The back yard wasn't particularly remarkable from here, but there was a patch of grass large enough for Caleb to run around and a tree sturdy enough for him to climb, and that seemed sufficient.

Noel moved his chair so he could watch Caleb through the window in the back door. Dorian said, once the door was closed, "Malcolm told me what you suspect about Caleb. I've been researching all morning, and I -- I just don't know how to help. I'm sorry."

Noel cast down his eyes, disappointed. I said, "Haven't you done anything like this before?"

"No," Dorian said. "When we hold seances for people, if we determine the house is haunted, most of the time the family just decides to live with it. There's only been a few times when someone has felt threatened enough to move out."

"Moving out isn't an option just yet," said Noel.

"I know," Dorian said gently. "I've been wracking my brain about another solution. There's always blessing the house, but Emmanuel will object to that, I take it."

"He would." Noel hesitated, then opened the top button of his shirt to reveal the silver dime, always around his neck. "Malcolm gave me this in December. Would something like this help Caleb too?"

"It's protection," said Dorian. "It's worth a shot. I'd put a line of salt on his windowsill and the threshold of his door, too."

"Salt?"

"It's old white magic," Dorian said. "If he won't wear the dime, the salt should -- _should_ \-- keep any malevolent ghosts out."

I said softly, "Benevolent ones, too?"

"Maybe," Dorian said. "You'd put it on all the windows and doors if you want to keep spirits out of the entire house."

Noel's face broke, and I reached for his hand. He clasped it tightly and whispered, "No, I -- I don't want to do that."

Dorian looked at him, expression serious, and said, "I understand." He paused, then said, "That's really all I can offer. Exorcism is beyond me, and I wouldn't take it upon myself to bless the house. I wouldn't recommend trusting someone who wasn't ordained in some way."

"It's more than enough," I said, still watching Noel. "Thank you."

"There's something else," Dorian said. "I haven't really known how to bring it up. But I was listening to the reel-to-reel again, and there's something I think we missed. The voice -- right before she attacked Malcolm, when I speed the voice up I think I understand what she said."

"What does she say?" Noel asked.

Dorian glanced at me. "'Mine.'"

***

I was accustomed to Noel's silences, but even so as we drove back to Fidele I glanced at him frequently, wondering what he was thinking. When his gaze wasn't on the road it was on Caleb, and his face was unreadable. I kept my arm around Caleb and watched him, too; he was more alert than he had been before his appointment, and played with the dials for the radio until we were too deep in the countryside to get more than static.

Back at the house, we walked with Caleb to the front steps, where Mrs. Bell met us. "Would you take Caleb for a little bit?" Noel asked her. "I need to talk to Malcolm."

"Of course," Mrs. Bell said and held out her hand to Caleb. "Come along, sugar."

Caleb put his hand on hers, but still gave us both cautious looks before climbing up the steps. Noel watched them, then said to me with a nod to the gardens, "Let's go for a walk."

"Is that a euphemism for something?" I said as we headed for the brick paths. "I'd be very happy if that were a euphemism for something."

Noel huffed. "It could be."

We walked, Noel with his head lowered and his hands in the back pockets of his chinos. Since he hadn't gone into his office today he had dressed casually; I loved the way he looked when he was relaxed -- the slim cut of the trousers, the fit of his V-neck sweater across his shoulders and chest -- and spent those first minutes just admiring him as we walked.

We were deep in the gardens, approaching where they melted into the fields, when Noel finally spoke. "Has the ghost done anything to you lately that you haven't told me about?"

"No," I said. "I've shown you the scratches. I haven't been sleepwalking, and I haven't had any new strange dreams."

"That's good," Noel said absently, as if his mind were far, far away, and he looked over his shoulder at the house. The gardens had been designed to draw an unmistakable delineation between owners and owned, and this was as far as you could get from the house and still be considered on its grounds.

It must have been far away enough, because Noel grabbed me by the front of my shirt and pushed me against the nearest tree as he kissed my mouth, hard and fierce. I shoved a hand into his hair and kissed him back, just as desperate. It had been so long. It had been too long. After the romance of the wedding and an emotional night, we hadn't done this already only due to lack of privacy.

Noel whispered as he kissed me, "She can't have you. I don't care what she thinks. You're not hers, you're mine. You're _mine_."

"I'm yours," I said, "and you're mine."

"We have to be careful."

"Careful. Yes."

"But I won't give you up."

"No," I said, "never, never give me up. I'm yours, I'm yours."

He groaned into my neck, his mouth open over my pulse, and I wished that I could wrap my legs around his waist and let him have me right there, in the open. As it was, I raked my hands through his hair and scratched down his back, and then shoved them into his back pockets so I could bring our hips together.

When we finally parted -- gasping and trembling -- Noel stepped back and shoved a hand through his hair. I tipped back my head to rest it against the tree trunk, breathing through my mouth as I gazed up at the sky through the leaves.

Noel said, "I hate feeling this helpless."

"C'mere," I said, holding out my arm, and Noel smiled and leaned against me, encircled in my arm. "You're doing everything you can. Nobody could expect more. You take care of me and I take care of you as much as you let me," he huffed again at that, "and we -- we keep going, just like everybody else. We keep going."

"I wanted to take you into the city for Mardi Gras but now I'm not sure we should leave Caleb overnight again."

"We can find something else to do."

"That's true," Noel murmured as he tucked his head against my neck. I stroked the back of his head. "We should offer to keep Samuel and Jane some night, so Alex and Julia can go out."

"We should," I said, smiling, loving the domesticity -- and surprised at myself, because I had thought I would never want domesticity again.

I had denied myself from wanting it, I thought, as we breathed together in the cool February air. But I wanted this. Making decisions together, worrying together, comforting each other. Kissing and making love were wonderful, of course, but so was this, and I thought anyone who wanted to take it from me would have to pry it from my hands.

After a few minutes more of just holding each other close, Noel lifted his head. "We should get back."

"I suppose so. Caleb needs some normalcy today."

Noel straightened my shirt and jacket, and ran his hands through my hair to smooth it down. I did the same to him, and we smiled at each other. "People might even mistake you for someone respectable."

"Horrors," I said, and he laughed and offered his arm for the walk back to the house.


	31. Mardi Gras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> “She can’t have you. I don’t care what she thinks. You’re not hers, you’re mine. You’re mine.”

The Saturday before Lent, Noel got a printed invitation to the 4/4 Club's annual Mardi Gras party; there was a scrawled note on the back that read, " _Noel, bring as many guests as you want! - C._ " Noel turned the invitation over and over in his hands, looking solemn. I said, "Have you heard of this party before?"

"It's a big deal," Noel said and put the invitation on the table between my breakfast bowl and his. "Simon threw this party from the time he bought the club. He gave away so much booze and food he lost money every year, but he loved it too much to stop doing it."

"Did you go?"

Noel shrugged. "Once or twice. Mardi Gras is a crazy time -- parades and costumes and balls, and alcohol everywhere. And the beads, of course. Tons of beads."

Caleb leaned over me from where he was eating his breakfast to look at the invitation, and then looked up at Noel. Noel stroked Caleb's hair and said, "Caleb wasn't even a year old when he went to his first Mardi Gras party." He looked up at me. "Cozy has talked to me about this. He said if I didn't want him to he wouldn't, but I'd hate to disappoint our regulars. I told him it was fine with me, if he wanted to."

"You should go," I said. "I'll stay home. Anything that involves standing for a long time is a bad idea."

Noel nodded slowly, then said, "You can watch the parades from the club. There's always one route that goes down Bourbon Street, so Grace and Simon would set up chairs on the roof and the galleries, and buy beads for their guests to throw. Cozy plans to do the same."

"Do you do _want_ to go?" I pressed gently.

"We should, at least for a few hours." He sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. "Cozy says there are a lot of people who'd like to see me. What they want to do is talk about Simon, but I suppose eventually I'll have to let them."

Caleb leaned against my side. I stroked his hair -- unruly, today, and in need of a cut. "Fifty years ago we would have let this mop grow into ringlets," I told him, and he wrinkled his nose. I said to Noel, "We can leave early if you get overwhelmed."

"I know," Noel murmured. "Right now, the thought overwhelms me." He inhaled and said more cheerfully, "Finish up your breakfast, peanut. We're due at the Christies shortly."

It was Samuel's idea, to our surprise, that the boys play together again. Whatever had caused them to fall out with each other seemed to be forgotten, and Alex said Samuel had begged for Caleb to come over again soon. Caleb didn't object, even if he knew why Samuel hadn't wanted to come over in the first place, and I thought getting back into the routine would only be good for the both of them.

We had followed Dorian's advice with Caleb, and acquired a silver dime on a red leather cord like Noel's for Caleb to wear. Noel didn't want him wearing it while he slept, for fear of choking, so every night we place a line of salt on his windowsills and doorway. As far as we could tell, it was working -- no more strange playmates, no more leaving the house. If he missed his invisible friend, Caleb gave us no indication.

Caleb resumed eating his breakfast with enthusiasm. Noel and I finished ours, too, and I washed the dishes as Noel got Caleb to brush his teeth and ran a comb through his hair.

I had my own mail that day, that I had not opened yet. I got letters often, mostly from Mary Kate and Dad, but this one was addressed from OJD in Louisville. I didn't want to open it in front of Noel; I hadn't heard from Oliver since Christmas, and hadn't reached out to him beyonda thank-you note for his gift, but I still didn't want to flaunt an old relationship in front of the new one.

Once the dishes were washed, I went into the library to wait for Noel and Caleb to be ready to leave, and opened the envelope. As with everything that surrounded Oliver, the paper was luxurious, thick card stock with a good tooth that took ink from his fountain pen without a smear.

_"Malcolm,_

_I will be in New Orleans over Mardi Gras. I'm staying at the Roosevelt Hotel on Roosevelt Way. Come to lunch on Tuesday, after the morning parades._

_\-- O."_

Typical of his messages, it contained nothing someone could use against him. Not even a salutation. Not even his first name.

I sighed, and would have tossed the card and envelope into the fireplace if a fire had been lit, but it was too warm for that even this early in the day. I didn't have to go, of course, and likely shouldn't since he only wanted to see me so we could have sex. Even if he had said he missed me, I knew he meant he missed my body.

_He doesn't know me enough to miss me,_ I thought, flicking the paper with my thumb. A tragic thought to have about a lover of three years -- but our trysts had never been about talk.

As fascinating as I had found Oliver in the beginning, I now found him frustrating. One might even say tiresome.

Well, I would decide on Tuesday whether I would see him or not. Maybe it would be good to have one final goodbye. I tucked the letter into my pocket sketchbook, and took up my cane when I heard Caleb pounding down the stairs, Noel's light step behind him.

We set off to walk to the Christies' house. The weather was perfect Deep South winter, the sky pristine blue, the air light and cool. Full of energy, Caleb ran ahead of us and Noel called after him, "Stay on the path, Caleb!"

He turned around and waved to us. We waved back. I said, "We could take Caleb to a daytime parade and then bring him home, and go back into the city for the evening party." Parade routes and times, as well as the heraldry of the various krewes, were published in the paper. "And just stay there for an hour or two, if more would be too much."

"Practical as ever," Noel said. "They used to have Mardi Gras balls at Fidele, back before the War between the States. They'd clear all the furniture out of the vestibule and dance with musicians playing on the staircase landing. The house wasn't made for dancing, but Grace said she'd found a letter that said during a ball you could hear the music on every floor."

"Achille must have loved music."

"Mm," Noel said, "if not dancing." He stopped walking and so did I, and he put his hands on my face like a masquerade mask. I stood still, trying not to chuckle as he adjusted his fingers to cover the upper half of my face. "I've been to a masked ball or two," he said softly. "They can be good for a secret meeting between lovers."

"I'd make a terrible secret lover," I said. "The cane is a dead giveaway."

Noel huffed and removed his hands. "I want to see you in a dinner jacket."

"You saw me in my best suit a few weeks ago."

"I like you in your best suit."

We resumed walking, and I said, "Have you met a lot of secret lovers at a masked ball?"

"Oh, enough," Noel said with a enigmatic smile, and Caleb ran to us to grab our hands and tug us along.

***

As we drank coffee in the Christies' kitchen and watched the boys play in the back yard, Noel said, "Julia, we've been Mardi Gras party at the 4/4 club for Tuesday night. Do you think you and Alex might like to come?"

"Oh, Noel, I don't know," Julia said as she dandled Janie on her knee. "Mardi Gras is such a strange time. It's not like how we observed Shrove Tuesday when I was a girl -- we've eat pancakes and have flipping races, but it never reached the decadence you have here."

"We eat pancakes for Mardi Gras too," said Noel. "Some restaurants use food coloring to dye them the Mardi Gras colors."

"American-style pancakes," said Julia with a laugh. "I'd never had them until Alex made them for me when we were courting. Alex and I have been to the occasional parade, but the parties and the drinking just make me feel out of place."

"I'd like to take Caleb to a paradein the morning," Noel said. "It's far too wild to take him to one at night. I probably shouldn't take him to Bourbon Street even on regular days, but our friends at the 4/4 Club love seeing him so much I hate to keep him away from them. He was just a baby at his first Mardi Gras party there. What if we went to a morning parade together, and watched it form the club?"

"I know many of Samuel's classmates will see at least one parade," Julia mused. "He might like having some beads, like his friends. Would you want Caleb to stay here overnight? We could even take him to church in the morning, if you like."

"He's a little young for Ash Wednesday still," Noel said. "But I'd love for him to sleep here. He's always so happy when he stays with you." He paused, watching the boys. "Emmanuel will go to his club's ball Tuesday night, and Willie said he usually doesn't come home until after the Ash Wednesday service."

"Then it should work out well," said Julia. "We can have Caleb ready to go home around lunchtime Wednesday, or whenever you return from the city." She said to me, "I assume you're going, too."

"For at least part of the day," I said. "I can't stand for long."

"If we're at the 4/4 Club most of the day, there will be plenty of chairs," said Noel.

"Then I'll probably be at the 4/4 Club most of the day."

Noel looked at me like he wanted to say something, then said, "I'm glad the boys are getting along," with a nod to the window. "I don't know what they disagreed about but I think it's blown over."

Julia said, "Children fight, but they forgive, too. They seem to be all right now."

We all watched the boys through the kitchen window. They were in the treehouse, and I could hear Samuel shouting, "Hoist the main sail! Full speed ahead!" Caleb, meantime, saluted him and then pretended to haul ropes and climb masts.

"Samuel has discovered pirates," Julia explained.

"Caleb still asks for Round Table stories at bedtime," Noel said. "He didn't particularly like the pirates in _Peter Pan_."

"We're keeping the violence from Samuel, for now," said Julia. "I may introduce him to Age of Sail stories, instead. He's a bit young for Horatio Hornblower, but I'd rather he admire the Royal Navy than Long John Silver, any day." Jane squirmed in her arms, wanting to be put down, so Julia set her on her feet so she could creep around the kitchen.

"There is something that worries me," Noel said. "He's left the house at night twice now, that we know of, and gone down to the abandoned slave cemetery. I'd hate for you to have to hunt for him because he's decided to wander off."

"I don't think he's ever left or tried to leave when he's slept here," Julia said with a frown. "He's neverhad so much as a bad dream, as far as I can tell. Samuel's never said if he's restless or frightened at night."

"If he sleepwalked here, I'm sure you'd hear him," I said. "The floors creak a bit."

"Oh, Malcolm, you don't have to say 'a bit,'" Julia said. "They creak all the time."

"Do they need repairs?" said Noel and got up from the table to test a few places in the kitchen. Sure enough, the floorboards creaked beneath his feet.

"Alex says the nails are at least fifty years old," Julias said. "But the wood doesn't seem to be rotting anywhere. It's just age. The time will come, I'm sure, but it's not yet."

Noel paced about a few more steps, still frowning. "Let me know if the boards seem to give too much," he said. "In this damp the wood may age faster than we think."

"I will, Noel. Thank you."

We left the Christies' house soon after that, and walked in silence until Noel said, "Did that letter you got have bad news?"

"What? No."

"Hm," Noel said. "You were terse with Julia. You're never terse with Julia. I've never seen you be terse with anyone."

I sighed and stopped walking, took out my sketchbook, and handed Noel the letter. He read it, frowning, and gave it back to me.

"Do you plan to see him?"

"I'm torn," I said. "I do find myself missing him at odd moments. It's not even the sex -- I mean, it is, but it's also not. I suppose what I don't trust is how much he misses me, and what he misses me for. He might not have found a replacement for me yet, or he may have but is feeling nostalgic. It's hard to say."

"You're very cynical about him. He just asked you to lunch."

"We had a lot of lunches when we didn't eat a thing."

He kicked a stone in the path out of his way. "You can, you know," he said finally. "If you want."

I stopped him with my hand on his arm. "And if I don't want?"

Out here, under the clear winter sky, his eyes looked like a calm ocean, deep and blue and full of mystery. He said, "You're your own man, Malcolm," and we resumed walking.

***

Tuesday morning, we headed into the city early. Caleb yawned and rubbed his eyes as we drove, but his sleepiness disappeared as we drew closer to Bourbon Street. Drab olive lampposts were now draped with colorful strings of beads.Costumed parade-goers waved to us as we slowly drove past them, flowers, pirates, daringly-dressed dancers, clowns in huge papier-mâché masks or walking on stilts. Caleb held onto the Jaguar's window and watched everything with wide eyes, and Noel glanced over at him with a smile.

We planned to meet our friends at the 4/4 Club and eat breakfast before the first morning parade. I had thought all the parades went down Bourbon Street, but according to the newspaper there were different routes at different starting times, so the crowds would move from place to place throughout the day. The various krewes had elected their own royalty and grand marshals, and the floats adhered only vaguely to a general theme. We planned to stay close to the 4/4, where we could retreat from the noise and excesses when we needed to.

Noel parked the Jaguar in the alley behind the 4/4, and we went into the building through the delivery door. The club was already crowded, with a simple breakfast buffet spread on one of the long tables and music from a record player. Eula greeted us happily and scooped up Caleb, who kissed her cheek and put his arms around her neck. She hugged Noel and me, too, and said, "Help yourselves to the food, gentlemen," and bore Caleb off to fill a plate for him.

There was a box for donations at the end of the table. Noel slipped in a ten-dollar bill -- far too much, but unsurprising -- and picked up two plates. "Will you grab us a table, Malcolm?"

"Sure," I said, "holler if you need help carrying things," and went to one of the few empty booths in the club. All around us people were talking and laughing as they ate beignets and omelettes and drank chicory coffee; mostly familiar faces from the nights we came to the club, but many new ones, as well, which I hoped meant the 4/4 was becoming known to tourists and they would give Cozy more business.

Noel returned with two full plates balanced on one arm and two coffee cups, which he expertly set on the table. "You've been a waiter," I said as I arranged the utensils.

"Worked my way through college," he said as he sat opposite me. "My scholarship only went so far."

"I picked berries in the summer," I said. I showed him my hands, still nicked with the occasional little white scar. "Boysenberry prickles are a bitch."

"I'm not sure I've ever had boysenberries."

"They're like blackberries, but the flavor is more tart." I stuck a fork in a strawberry. "I like them in a pie, especially when it's still hot and you've got vanilla ice cream melting into the crust."

Noel bit into one of his beignets, and said once he'd chewed and swallowed, "You need to cook for me, Malcolm -- or at least plan a meal for me, and I'll do the rest."

"Name the day, Noel," I said, and we smiled at each other.

We heard a boyish voice cry, "Caleb!" and looked over to see Samuel Christie running to the table where Caleb was eating with Eula and her friends. Caleb jumped from his chair and they hugged each other, and Julia and Alex, little Jane alert and wide-eyed in Alex's arms, paused by the table. "I'd best go do some introductions," Noel said and left our booth to join them.

I watched them, smiling to myself, as hands were shaken and cheeks kissed, and the group pulled together a few more tables so they could all eat together. Noel came back and said, "Eula has asked us to join them, if we want."

"I want," I said, and Noel took our plates again as I carried the coffee cups. Eula and Julia were getting to know each other, while Alex answered Samuel's questions and fed the baby slices of strawberry and bites of scrambled eggs. And it wasn't long before I heard the familiar shout of, "Sarge!" and the Gaspards joined us as well, Angelique looking bonny as a new bride should, and Rene happy and proud. With all these people around and introductions to make, in the hope that our friends would also be friends with each other, there was little chance for Noel and I to talk; still, my eyes met Noel's more than once, and every time we both smiled.

When it was time for the parade to start, Cozy invited us upstairs to his apartment above the club, and we went onto a gallery framed in wrought iron that overlooked the street. Throngs of people crowded below, blowing noisemakers and whistles, sometimes singing -- "May we all turn into cats and dogs, if ever I cease to love--" and cheering whenever someone on the galleries tossed them beads.

Cozy had a chair set aside for me, so I held Jane on my knee and pointed out the floats and marching bands to her while the others cheered and threw down beads. Noel leaned against the wrought-iron balustrade beside me, and despite the noise from below, sometimes I heard him softly sing along with the music.

The first parade passed and the crowd began to disperse; I gave Jane to Julia and went to find Angelique. She and Rene had gone into the roof, where Cozy had arranged more chairs, and they still lingered there as they sipped mimosas and chatted. I said to Angelique, "Can I borrow you for a few minutes?"

"Of course, cher," she said and squeezed Rene's hand. "Malcolm needs me."

"Go on, ma belle," he answered, so we left the roof for the quiet the passageway outside Cozy's apartment.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Not exactly," I said. "Have you talked to Dorian lately about the tape recording from the seance?"

"Not since before the wedding," she said. "He's been busy with his studies since we got back from our honeymoon."

"Caleb left the house again during the night," I said. "Noel and I didn't discover this until we got back form the reception. We found him in the slave cemetery, and I think there's something that's calling him there. We told Dorian about this and Dorian said he thinks the roar we got on the tape was saying, 'Mine.'"

Angelique raised her eyebrows.

"Between that and some other things that have happened, I'm afraid whatever's haunting the house is focusing on Caleb, and I was hoping you might know something we can do to protect him."

Angelique sighed and toyed with her glass. "I"m no exorcist, Malcolm."

"I know," I said. "Dorian said you've never had to deal with anything like this before. He said to put salt around the doors and windows, and I got Caleb a silver dime like Noel's. Other than that, I'm at a loss."

"Does Zachary tell you anything? Or Simon?"

"The ghosts don't talk to me," I said, "not really. I think Zachary and Simon have both tried to communicate a few times, but I can't make sense of what they're trying to say."

Angelique sipped her mimosa, looking thoughtful. "I'm sure Simon is trying to protect Caleb and Noel, the same way Zachary is trying to protect you. But they're both fairly new ghosts, as these things go, and Justine has been around for two hundred years. She may have strength and power they simply don't."

"Why is she focusing on him now?" I said. "Why not in the spring, when Caleb first came to live at Fidele?"

"The dead are outside of time," Angelique replied.

It made sense, and yet it didn't seem like enough of an answer to me. Still, I nodded and thanked her, and she rejoined Rene.

I went back downstairs, and Alex caught my eye so I joined them at their table. "Julia's ready to go," he said. "Should we take Caleb, or do you think he'll want to stay later?"

"I'm sure he's ready, too," I said, and gestured to Noel. He excused himself from his conversation and came to us, and I said, "The Christies are ready to leave. Should we send Caleb on with them?"

"Yes, please," Noel said. "Thank you so much again for watching him."

"We love having him," said Alex. There followed a good ten minutes of fetching coats, giving hugs, and saying goodbye; when they had left, I said to Noel, "I hate to desert you, but I should leave for the Roosevelt."

The faint smile dropped from Noel's face. "So you're going?"

"For lunch," I said and took hold of Noel's elbow. "Just for lunch."

He straightened his arm, effectively pulling it from my grip. "I know. Lunch with an old friend."

"Noel," I began, and he frowned.

"Just go," he said. "If you need to leave now, go." He left me for the bar, and poured himself another mimosa.

I sighed and shoved my hand through my hair, debating whether I should stay or go, and then thought, _If he wants me to go, I'll go._

_***_

I made my way down Canal Street to the Roosevelt Hotel. On the city map it wasn't a long walk and would have taken me twenty minutes on a normal day; today, the streets clogged with people, it took several minutes to move just a few feet, particularly when passers-by carelessly kicked at my cane as they walked.

I was irritated and hungry by the time I finally reached the Roosevelt, and wishing I'd stayed at the 4/4 where I could eat lunch and spend the afternoon with people I liked.

But Oliver ... we needed to talk. I needed to end it for good.

How to do this, though, I wasn't sure. I supposed as I walked that my previous attempts had been only half-hearted; that I had hoped, at first, that he would want me back enough to throw over the rest of his life and be what I wanted him to be.

But I didn't want this from him anymore. So why, I asked myself as I walked, was I going to meet him instead of staying at the 4/4 -- instead of staying with Noel?

He had said I was free to do what I liked, but I didn't feel free -- or rather, I didn't feel that doing what I liked meant doing what Oliver wanted. Assuming I knew what Oliver wanted, of course, and I had some hope that he wasn't so unoriginal as coming all the way to New Orleans from Louisville just to sleep with me. A year ago I would have found the prospect flattering; now, it irritated me even more than the careless crowds. The presumption of it, assuming that I wouldn't have moved on from him.

By the time I reached the Roosevelt Hotel all I wanted was a cold drink and a comfortable chair, and hoped Oliver had planned on both when I asked for him at the front desk. The hotel itself was a stately building, white brick and tall windows that reminded me of Paris on the outside, marble and walnut on the inside. Its golden opulence suited Oliver, and made me miss the simplicity of Noel's little house, with its quietude and books and cozy bed.

The clerk at the front desk called Oliver's room, and asked me to wait in the lounge. "Mr. Davenport will be right down."

Better there than in his room, I thought, and went into the lounge off the lobby. It was quiet there, tourists out in the streets, and when I sank into one of the leather chairs a waiter came to ask if I'd like a drink. "I'm just waiting for a friend," I said, and the waiter nodded and went back to join the bored bartender and other waiter at the end of the bar.

I had just taken my sketchbook out of my pocket when Oliver appeared in the lounge doorway. I must admit, after not seeing him for so long there was a moment, just a moment, when the sight of him took my breath away. He was a handsome and distinguished man, his jet-black hair just starting to go grey at the temples, his body solid and strong.

But he didn't stir me the way Noel did. He didn't smell like rain.

Oliver crossed the room as I was standing from the chair, and we shook hands. "Malcolm. So glad to see you. Did you go to the parade?"

"I did, with some friends," I said, and started to pull out a chair for him.

Oliver waved it back. "I'd actually like to take you somewhere else before we eat, unless you're hungry now."

"I can wait," I said.

"Come on. There's a car waiting."

We left the hotel and went to a hired car at the end of the street, at the opposite end of the crowds. The driver leapt out and opened the passenger door, and Oliver had me climb in first.

We left the French Quarter and the revelers behind, and made our way through the city. A glass separated us from the driver, which was why, I supposed, Oliver felt brave enough to put his hand on my thigh.

"I have missed you so much, Malcolm."

I removed his hand. "How's Elizabeth?"

Oliver made a grumbling sort of sound, but didn't try to put his hand back. "Fine. Hale and hearty. She's expecting again. I hope it's a girl, so she'll finally be satisfied."

"She's expecting again." I rubbed my forehead. "For God's sake, Oliver."

"Oh, don't start," Oliver said. "You have no reason to judge me." We both looked out our respective windows, and he said, "Have you missed me?"

"Sometimes," I said.

A beat passed. "At least you're staying out of trouble."

I huffed to myself, thinking, _You have no idea._

The car brought us to a part of the city I'd spent little time in -- the Garden District, where you could find antebellum mansions beside Craftsman bungalows, and everywhere gardens overflowed with flowers and trees. We drove down St. Charles Street, and stopped in front of a one-story white house with a red door and a red brick fence.

I looked at Oliver. "What's this?"

"Come on and see." He opened the door, and the driver came around to open the door for me. Oliver and I went up the brick front path, and he unlocked the front door.

I stopped in the foyer. It was a long and narrow house, with good windows and rooms that flowed smoothly one into the next. Even from here, I could see the back garden -- more red brick, but also more green, a place to drink coffee and read the paper on a peaceful morning, or draw until the sun went down.

I said to Oliver again, "What's going on, Oliver?"

"I'm going to buy this house," he said. "I'm buying it for you."

"What?"

"My offer still stands. You should be spending your time making art, not chasing after children. If you like this city, let me buy this house for you, and I'll take care of everything so all you have to think about is creating things. If you don't like this city, we can go anywhere else. Chicago, so you can be near your sister. Lexington. Memphis."

"Not Louisville?" I said.

His mouth worked a moment, and he said, "If you really want to be in Louisville, I can find a place in Louisville." He came to me and took my face in his hands. "I miss you. I want to give you everything you've ever wanted."

I stared into his eyes. They were brown like the darkest part of a piece of amber, and part of the reason why I had noticed him in the beginning. At a time when I was lonely and lost, those eyes had seemed kind.

I said gently, "Oliver, what is it the you think I want?"

"The same thing we all want," he said, "The freedom to live a satisfying life."

"Okay," I said, "that's actually a good answer, but the specifics -- you don't see that, do you? You keep trying to force me into this box you've made for me. _I like teaching._ I don't want to be a full-time artist and even if I did, I'd do it on my own, not as some sort of quasi-bohemian backstreet life you've imagined for yourself."

"For _us_ ," Oliver insisted.

"For _you_ ," I said. "Because you're scared of growing old or fatherhood or whatever it is that you're running from, or looking for. I can't give you immortality, Oliver."

"That's not--"

"Isn't it?" I said. "Your wife is pregnant and your first thought is, 'I know, I'll buy my old lover a house'?"

"You don't know what it's like," Oliver said, stepping back from me. "I have _needs_ \--"

"I know I don't," I said, "and I never want to. That's why I never got married. I could have, if I'd tried. There were plenty of girls who thought I was a fine catch. But I don't want this -- I don't want secrets."

"You know as well as I do that men like us will always be secret," Oliver said.

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean we have to be lies."

Oliver looked at me, then said, "It's him, isn't it? Noel Thibodeaux. I lost you the moment you laid eyes on him."

"We've grown close," I said. "We understand each other."

"And does he understand what it is that you really want?"

"Surprisingly well."

We looked at each other until he stepped away, and trailed his hand along the back of the pretty white sofa, far too elegant to sleep on with a lover during a rainy night. "We were happy, weren't we? I made you happy."

"I was as happy as I knew how to be," I said. "I've gotten better at it since."

"Are you in love with him?"

I didn't answer for a moment. It was a thought I kept pushing away, not wanting to deal with it -- but I knew the answer.

And I wanted Noel to be the first person to know.

So I just smiled and patted Oliver's cheek. "Goodbye, Oliver. Enjoy Mardi Gras. Tomorrow's the first day of Lent. It's a good time for some self-reflection."

I left the house and waved off the driver, and started back to the French Quarter.

 


	32. If Ever I Cease To Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> “It’s him, isn’t it? Noel Thibodeaux. I lost you the moment you laid eyes on him.”

I was able to catch a streetcar at the other end of St. Charles Street, but even so the sun was low on the horizon by the time I returned to Bourbon Street. Crowds had begun to gather in preparation for the evening parades, packing the French Quarter with bodies in various stages of intoxication. More than one person shoved a half-drunk mug into my hand with a slurred, "Let the good times roll!" as I made my way down the street.

The 4/4 was even more busy than when I left, the dance floor full. Eula and the band, except for Cozy, were on stage, and as I came through the front door they were tearing into a version of "Why Don't You Do Right" that was barely audible above the talk and laughter.

I didn't see Noel anywhere, and so went to the back office, thinking he and Cozy must be working on the books for the club; but the door was locked and no one answered my knock. I went back to the dance floor and saw that Rene and Angelique dancing close and laughing together; when Angelique saw me she waved me over, and hugged me when I joined them.

"Malcolm, cher," she said, "what a lovely day it's been. We had a lovely breakfast and a lovely lunch, and Cozy is just lovely. I've met such lovely people because of you."

"How many cocktails have you had, Mrs. Gaspard?" I said, and Rene laughed as Angelique rested her head on his shoulder.

"Perhaps one too many, her. We'll switch to water. How did your afternoon go? Noel said an old friend of yours was in town."

I put my arms around them both, leaning on Rene to keep my balance. "It went about the same as I expected. My friend showed me a house he thought I'd like, but the price was too high. Have you seen Noel lately?"

"Cozy," said Angelique. "He's with lovely Cozy."

"I didn't know you were looking for a house," said Rene.

"I'm not," I said. I patted them both on their backs. "Enjoy dancing. I'm going to sit for a bit." Angelique kissed my cheek, and I left the dance floor to find an empty chair.

Three songs later, there was still no sign of Noel or Cozy. The band took a break and I was joined by Eula, Fess, and Remy. "Hello, handsome," Eula said as she kissed my cheek, and we squeezed around the little table. "We weren't sure we'd see you again today."

"I couldn't stay away from the best party in the city," I said, and they all laughed, looking pleased. "Do you know where Noel is? I haven't seen him since I got back."

"Him and Cozy have been upstairs for a while," said Fess. "Got a lot to talk about, seems to be."

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you went up too," Eula said to me, and I tapped my fingers on my cane, torn. I wanted to see Noel -- he and I had a lot to talk about too -- but I hated to interrupt if they were working on club business, or even if they weren't. On the other hand, I wanted to share my revelation with Noel as soon as possible, and it had already been far too long.

"You know, I think I will," I said, and rose. "See you folks later."

Down the passage and past the manager's office, then, and up the stairs to the second level and Cozy's apartment. The door was closed, so I took the stairs to the roof.

It occurred to me as I climbed that I had no idea how close Noel and Cozy's friendship really was. I'd never told Noel about mine and Rene's past fling because it didn't seem worth mentioning, not with Rene moving on with a new wife; Noel had no reason to tell me if he and Cozy had a similar past. I didn't want to be jealous if they did, but I did climb the stairs a little faster.

Sure enough, Noel and Cozy were on the roof, sitting close in two folding chairs near the roof's edge, both with tall but empty glasses of beer in their hands like they'd forgotten to refill their drinks. Their heads were bent close, too, but as I grew closer I could hear them talking, despite the noise from below.

Cozy was saying gently, "I think it all comes down to what's worth fighting for. If he's worth fighting for, then fight for him, even if this Davenport fellow has everything you say he does. All the money in the world won't make up for the real thing."

"And if it's not the real thing?" Noel said, and my heard ached for the pain in his voice.

"Then let it go, my man. Let it go." He looked up then and saw me, and nudged Noel. Noel looked up at him, and when Cozy nodded Noel turned and saw me too.

"Uh," I said. "Hi."

Noel breathed, "Hi."

Cozy looked from me to Noel and back, and said, "I'll leave you two to talk," as he rose from the chair. Noel turned back to the street and made to take another swig of his drink before he realized it was empty, and put the glass down on the ground.

I murmured, "Thanks, Cozy," as he went past me, and he patted my arm. I made my way across the roof to Noel's side, and eased myself into the empty chair. Below us, anticipation rose from the crowd like a wave as the first float appeared at the end of the street.

I said, "Great view up here."

"It is." He paused. "I didn't think you'd come back."

"We went farther afield than I thought we would. He had chosen a house for me in the Garden District." I added, "We never did get around to lunch. I left before we could."

He nodded, his gaze on the street. "Malcolm," he said, "I know we haven't made each other any promises. I know I haven't any right to be jealous. I -- I'm trying not to be jealous."

"I know," I said. "I also know I don't need to behave like someone with a sweetheart. But I do, anyway."

Quiet, so hopeful it made my heart ache, "Meaning what?"

"Nothing happened between Oliver and me," I said, and Noel finally looked at me. "I told him I didn't want the house or anything else he could give me, and then I left."

"He didn't want to sleep with you?"

"No, he did," I said, "but I didn't want to sleep with him. And he offered to support me while I work on my art, but I don't want that, either. I'm not an artist. I'm a cartoonist, at best, but I'm even that. I'm a teacher. I don't want to be anything else."

Noel nodded again, slowly, looked at his feet. "He could give you everything you want."

"He really couldn't," I said. "All I want is you."

Noel gazed at me for a moment, then sniffed hard and looked away. "Well. How 'bout that."

When he didn't continue, I said, "I know you're not in a hurry to give your heart away. I understand that. But I'd like to make you a promise or two. We could start small."

He smiled, just a tiny bit. "What sort of promise?"

I said seriously, "I promise not to do anything I can't tell you about."

Noel's lips parted, and he smiled a little more. "I like that promise."

"And you've already promised me that I'll always be your last dance, so we're kind of one-to-one now -- two-to-one," I corrected myself. "You promised to never be ashamed of me. I promise I will sing to you whenever you want."

Noel was still gazing at me steadily, his eyes bright. "That feels like a good start."

"I think so, too."

"I want you so much right now."

"You've got me, baby."

Noel gazed at me a moment longer, then picked up both empty glasses and stood, holding out his free hand to me. "Come on. I have an idea."

I took his hand and let him help me up, ready to follow him anywhere.

 

***

 

"It's very simple," Noel said as we left the 4/4 with two fresh plastic mugs of beer, "it's so simple I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. The best place to hide isn't away in a corner. It's blending into a crowd -- especially a crowd that's already celebrating excess. We won't stand out at all." He had his arm around my shoulders and we walked slowly, impeded by the crowd but also not in a hurry to get anywhere.

I tested his theory by kissing him, and while someone cleared their throat pointedly nearby, Noel didn't pull away until I'd kissed him to my satisfaction. We leaned our foreheads together, and I could feel him smiling even though my eyes were closed.

"See," he whispered. "Like that."

"Let the good times roll," I said, and we resumed walking.

He was right -- it was easy to blend in. We weren't the only couple making use of the anonymity of a crowd to kiss and nuzzle, and not even the only couple of men; all around us were people in costume, or wearing piles of plastic beads, whose arms were around each other's waists or whose hands were in each other's back pockets. I thought as we walked along, or stood close as we waited for a knot of people to disperse so we could move, that none of the crowd was as handsome as my Noel, nor looked so happy. I kissed him often to keep him that way, and not once did he pull away or look around for someone he might know and not want to see.

It's hard to describe that night in detail. In the background were the parades, with marching bands and torches, the riders on floats throwing beads and trinkets. Around us was the noise of hundreds of people laughing and shouting and singing; sometimes a person popped up in front of us in their costume, causing both Noel and I to flinch; once or twice someone grabbed our hands and tried to dance with us. But most of the night the noise was like the faint buzz of cicadas in my ears, the throngs of people were like a phalanx around us, and the torchlight from the floats made the night soft and warm. We drank, we danced, we kissed, we whispered to each other that we were happy, so happy. The night was ours to do with as we pleased, and what pleased us was to be lovers together, careless of what others thought, needing nothing but each other.

I don't know when I said, "I love you, you know," except that we were in someone's courtyard with a fountain burbling nearby and bricks beneath our feet, and a band played "Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?" and the thought of leaving this city made me ache. No -- not the city, though the city was beautiful and fascinating and mysterious and I could spend the rest of my life there happily, in a Garden District mansion or a shotgun shack on Canal Street, as long as Noel was with me. Without him, it may as well have been an empty shell of a village like those we had passed through on our way from Normandy to the German border.

Noel said, "I know," and kissed me. He whispered again, "I know," against my lips, and I shivered as I grasped his face.

When the last parade float faded away down the avenue, Noel said, "How are you holding up?"

I admitted, "I could sit for a while."

Noel squinted at the nearest street sign. "Do you think you can walk or should we try for a street car?"

"I can walk," I said, though by that time it was more willpower that carried me forward than my remaining strength. Noel and I kept our arms around each other, but even so I wilted with relief when I saw the familiar neon of Bourbon Street.

We went around the back of the 4/4 and Noel let us in. "I don't think I should drive after that many hurricanes," he said. "Hopefully Cozy has a spare sofa."

I hung onto Noel as we made our way through the now-empty club -- chairs set on the tables, even the kitchen quiet -- to the staircase.

"What if he's got company?"

"Then I hope he'll forgive us for interrupting." He added as we climbed the stairs, "There's always the armchair in the manager's office."

I laughed at that, and Noel glanced at me with a smile.

At Cozy's door, Noel knocked and then hitched me against his side. It took a minute or two, but Cozy answered, still wearing his day clothes though his shirt was undone, revealing his undershirt. He raised his eyebrows, a patient expression on his face.

"Malcolm's a little worn out," Noel said, "and I'm a little tipsy. Could we sleep on your couch? Or on your floor?"

"Come in," Cozy said, holding open the door. "Lucky for you, I can do better than the floor." He took us into what looked like a spare room -- boxes filled with vinyl records, piles of sheet music kept in order with beer steins filled with bottle caps or single shoes -- and pulled a cord in the wall. "I've got a Murphy bed."

"You're a prince among men," I said, and he gave me an indulgent look.

"Just don't keep me up all hours, all right? I'm going to Mass in the morning."

"You are?" said Noel in surprise.

"Yeah," said Cozy like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll get you some blankets." He left the room.

I sank onto the Murphy bed, exhausted to the core. My hand ached from clutching my cane all night, so I wiggled and stretched my fingers to get the circulation going again.

Noel lounged beside me, and watched me pull myself onto the mattress and try to find a comfortable position. "How are you, really?"

"I may not be able to move much tomorrow."

"You should have said something."

I shrugged. "I was having fun. I didn't want it to end." I pushed my hand into his hair and slowly rubbed his scalp, and his eyelids drooped. "How are you?"

"I had too much to drink," he murmured and lay his head on my knee. "I'm a horrible example."

"You're a regular person," I said, smiling. "Who knew?"

“Absolutely no one.” He kissed my knee.

Cozy returned with blankets, and Noel got up to help him spread them over the bed. I moved aside, too sore and weary to do much else, and when the bed was made I took off my shoes and jacket, and crawled under the coverlet. Cozy wished us good night and left, shutting the door behind him, and Noel got into bed beside me.

We lay nestled together like spoons, his arm around my chest. His breath tickled my neck.

He whispered, "I know it's not a house in the Garden District."

"Baby, if all we had was a tent in a Hooverville I'd still be happy."

Noel fell silent, stroking my chest. I had begun to doze off when he said, "I love you too. I should have said it before. Everything's ... better. With you." He paused, then said, "All the rooms seems empty unless you're in them."

I turned over, despite the pressure it put on my aching hip, and kissed him. Noel clutched my hair and his legs went around mine, and for a minute or two all the aches and weariness fell away.

I lifted my mouth and rested my chin on his chest. We gazed at each other as he stroked my cheek. His mouth looked so soft and his eyelids were heavy, but his gaze was as steady as it ever was and there was a faint smile in the corners of his eyes. "Go to sleep, sunshine," he whispered. "Close your eyes. It's been a long day."

"I don't want to sleep," I said. "What if you disappear?"

"I won't disappear. I'll be right here." He traced a shape on my cheekbone. "I'll be right here, sleeping beside you, and I'll be here when you wake up in the morning."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Will you be here when I wake up every morning?" I bit my lip.

His eyes searched mine. "Promise."

I kissed him again, soft, and lay my head on his chest. He stroked my hair, his breathing even but his heartbeat a little faster than I knew it usually to be. I said, without lifting my head, "I want to give you everything I have. All the songs, all the pictures. Every bit of -- of goodness in me, I want that to be yours."

He exhaled slowly. His heartbeat began to calm. He said, "I'm not sure what that means, but it makes me really happy."

"I'm not entirely sure what it means either, but I mean every word." I looked up at him then -- yes, he was smiling; yes, it was mostly in his eyes.

"Is being in love supposed to feel this good?"

"I've always hoped so."

"Go to sleep," he said again, gentle and full of affection, and so I lay down my head on his chest and he pulled the coverlet over us.

The last time I was in love, it was full of secrets and uncertainty. We were just two boys with no clue of how the world worked, hopeless when it came to the reality of our situation. This time, my love and I saw things clearly, and despite all the threats and obstacles, we were not afraid.


	33. Emmanuel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> “I want to give you everything I have. All the songs, all the pictures. Every bit of — of goodness in me, I want that to be yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for content warning for this chapter.

The day after Daniel died, it had seemed to me that the sun shouldn't rise and the tides should stop going in and out. I was mourning him, and the rest of the world should be mourning him, too. The days after Mardi Gras felt the same and yet its opposite: shouldn't the sky be a brighter shade of blue? Shouldn't the birds sing sweeter songs? Shouldn't the Mississippi tumble and play like a freshwater creek in spring? I loved and was loved, and the world should reflect my joy.

The world spins on despite joy or sorrow, and so to anyone observing the household of Fidele, the days following Mardi Gras were quite ordinary. I taught Caleb and we played together; Noel joined us when he arrived home from work, and he read Caleb his bedtime story. Emmanuel came and went on his own schedule, always presiding over the supper table, though it seemed to me he glowered less and smiledmore, and that gave me hope. Noel and Emmanuel would never be as close and trusting as my father and I, but they might find a way to be friends.

"Spring is coming," Noel said one night. "I'll be traveling a lot again soon."

"We'll miss you," I said. "Just come home safe."

"Always," he said.

I felt like a poem, in those days. I felt like a song. Happiness was like air, all around to nourish and sustain us. A superstitious part of me said it couldn't last, we'd be found out, we'd be separated somehow, but I refused to let it overtake my thoughts. Even if we couldn't share a bed or take each other's names, every time I looked at Noel I couldn't stop myself from smiling as I thought, _He loves me._

When Noel left for his business trips,I put the "Days Until Uncle Noel Comes Home" countdown back on the blackboard in the school room. Noel sent postcards to Caleb nearly every day, so we pinned them to the cork board and put more pins in the map of the country to trace the cities where Noel had gone. Caleb and I drew pictures of the places Noel mentioned or special things to see in the cities he visited, and pinned those to the map, too. We put pins in Atlanta and Houston, Savannah and Miami, Mobile and Nashville.

When Noel came back, it was hard to say who was happier, Caleb or me. Caleb, of course, could climb on Noel and give him kisses without anyone thinking this was strange. I had to wait until we were alone to say, "Welcome home, Uncle Noel," and hear his answer, "It's good to be home," as we kissed.

But there were more trips for him to take, and nights his chair was empty; and if Caleb only poked listlessly at his supper I hardly blamed him.

The first two times Noel was away, Emmanuel hardly seemed to notice that anything was different, though he frowned sometimes if Caleb was reluctant to eat. On the first night of Noel's third business trip, I went to Caleb's room to read him his bedtime story and found that Emmanuel had taken my place in the rocking chair with Caleb on his knee, reading _The Water Babies_ as if he did this all the time. He glanced up at me over his reading glasses and went back to reading with barely a pause. I smiled and left them to it.

Once he was home again, Noel looked skeptical when I told him about this. "It's good he's trying, isn't it?" I said. "He may have realized he doesn't need to be a figure of terror all the time."

"It won't last," Noel said. "It never did when we were children, not that he'd cuddle and read to us then."

"I'll cuddle and read to you," I said, putting my arms around him, and he chuckled but let me pull him closer.

My birthday was at the end of March. Noel made certain to schedule his trips so that he would be home, and he took Caleb and I into the city that night to have dinner and go to the pictures. When Oliver and I were together, he had once rented an opera box for my birthday and distracted me with champagne and blow-jobs during the entire performance. I preferred Noel's means of celebrating.

Of course, that meant Noel had to leave again shortly after. Caleb went back to moping and I went back to trying not to, and we wrote "letters" to Noel for him to read once he came home.

By this time, Emmanuel read Caleb his bedtime story every night when Noel was away.He even tucked Caleb in if Caleb fell asleep, though he argued with me that a boy Caleb's age didn't need a fairy lamp. I retorted, "He doesn't need it when he tells us he doesn't need it," and Emmanuel scowled and muttered I thought I knew everything. In an effort to keep the peace, I did not remind him that I'd been teaching Caleb for nearly a year and had taught boys his age for years before that, while this was the first time Emmanuel had tried to be a parent in thirty-three years.

I regretted this decision when I woke in the night and smelled smoke. I hurried down the passage to Caleb's room and found that a fire was burning in his rarely-used hearth; the flue must have been closed, as smoke was filling the room rather than going up the chimney.

I shouted for Mrs. Bell and got Caleb out of bed, and while she kept Caleb out of the room Willie and I put out the fire and opened the windows to air out the room. "What happened?" Willie asked, frowning, and I could only shake my head, as mystified as he.

Emmanuel appeared at the end of the passage, his face like thunderheads to the point that Caleb hid his face in Mrs. Bell's neck and she turned away from Emmanuel a bit as if to shield him. "What's going on?"

"The flue wasn't open," Willie told him. "Someone started a fire without checking."

"Who? You?" Emmanuel accused me.

"Of course not," I said.

He all but yanked Caleb from Mrs. Bell's arms and held him, legs dangling, so they were eye level. Caleb tried to squirm out of his hands. "Were you playing with matches, boy?"

Caleb shook his head vigorously and tugged at Emmanuel's fingers.

Emmanuel gave him a hard shake. "Don't lie to me, boy!"

"Stop that!" I put my arm around Caleb's waist and hitched him against my hip. "You're scaring him!"

"Good," Emmanuel said harshly. "Someone needs to put a little fear of God in the boy."

"All this will do is make him afraid of _you_."

Emmanuel let him go at that, and Caleb wrapped his legs around my waist and his arms around my neck, and noiselessly wept as I murmured, "Sh, sh, it's all right, peanut."

Mrs. Bell silently mopped Caleb's face with a handkerchief as Emmanuel fumed and Willie looked like he would rather be sweeping the chimney himself than witnessing this. When Caleb calmed down I said gently, "Caleb, honey, we need you to tell us the truth. Were you playing with matches in your room?"

He shook his head violently. _No._

"Do you know who started the fire?"

Again, no.

"Was there anyone in your room who wasn't supposed to be?"

There was a slight hesitation before he shook his head again.

I held him a little tighter and said, "Okay, little man. Your room will need to air out before you can sleep in it safely again."

"He can sleep with me," said Mrs. Bell and held out her arms. "Come with me, sugar."

Caleb nodded and went from my arms to hers, and she bore him to her room down the passage.

"I know someone who can clean the chimney," Willie said to Emmanuel.

"Fine. Call them tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."

Still, Willie hesitated, and Emmanuel said, "Go to bed. We don't need you anymore tonight."

Willie gave me a glance, his mouth twisting in disapproval -- I'm not sure of Emmanuel or me, though it was probably of me -- and left the passageway.

Emmanuel inhaled, but before he could start in on me again, I said, "I know what you're doing to say and I don't want to hear it. He's a good boy. He doesn't play with matches."

"Then who started that fire?" said Emmanuel, but instead of enraged, like I thought he would be, his voice was terrified. "I've already lost my son. I can't lose my grandson, too."

"You have another child," I said wearily, and he scowled. "Mr. Thibodeaux, we've been -- there's something we've been doing to protect Caleb. We've been placing salt on the threshold and the windowsills."

"Salt," he repeated in disbelief.

"Folk magic," I said, "like the bottle-trees you see in people's gardens. But I haven't been doing it while Noel's away, and I think the fire started because we didn't."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "What are you talking about?"

I took a deep breath. "Do you believe this house is haunted?"

Something broke in his face, as if he couldn't hold himself back. "Don't be ridiculous."

"You do," I said in wonder. "You hear whispering when the room is empty, you feel someone's eyes on your back. You've lived in this house all your life -- of course you'e seen the family ghost."

"Only children believe in ghosts," he snapped.

"Children admit to it more easily than the rest of us," I said. "Mr. Thibodeaux, please listen. There's something malevolent in this house, and I believe it killed Simon and Grace. I believe it's after Caleb."

He stared at me, his lips parted and his breath growing faster. "Is this what you tell Caleb?"

"I haven't said a word about it to Caleb. I don't want to frighten him. But I've seen things I can't explain. Tonight was simply the latest event." I took a step closer to him. "Please listen to me, Mr. Thibodeaux. I'm trying to save your family."

He continued staring at me, nostrils flaring, and then his eyes closed and he put his hand to his forehead, swaying on his feet.

"Mr. Thibodeaux?"

Emmanuel waved a hand at me. "The smoke is giving me a headache. No more histrionics, Carmichael." He turned and stalked off.

I exhaled, missing Noel with everything in me, and then took one more look into Caleb's room. It looked hazy but ordinary, tidy and quiet. I went to his bed and folded back the bedding so the scent of smoke wouldn't cling to the sheets, and then crouched down to check under the bed for Tumnus. No sign of her, and I wondered if she had left when the smoke became heavy or before.

The grandfather clock down the hall struck two. I should go to bed, I knew, but instead I went to Noel's room and felt on his pillows. As I hoped, one still contained a folded piece of paper. I didn't take it out of the pillowcase, but knowing the note I had written, the first promise I had made to him, was still there made me smile.

That is, until I was back in bed and I felt a slight weight hop on with me, and a warm, furry shape curl against my chest. I rubbed Tumnus's soft ears and whispered, "Good night, cat."

***

For the next two days, Emmanuel essentially ignored Caleb and I at mealtimes, and all other times should our paths happen to cross. I went back to reading Caleb his bedtime story; Caleb did not seem disappointed at this change, and huddled at my side in the rocking chair as he had done before. I resumed, too, lining the threshold with salt, and made sure Caleb wore his silver dime when he went to bed.

Noel was due home Sunday morning. Mrs. Bell offered to take Caleb to her church that morning, which Caleb agreed to; Emmanuel would go to Mass as usual.

Sunday morning I woke early, so I puttered around the school room, tidying up, until an hour before Noel's train was due.

The drive into the city was a soothing one. Springtime in Louisiana was mild and gentle, breezes warm, even the rainclouds more friendly than threatening. I took the rural roads at a leisurely pace, feeling like a cowboy letting his horse have its head.

Waiting on the platform for Noel's train, my attention was caught by a man down the bench from me, who dozed slumped over, with his fedora drawn over his face and his hands in his raincoat pockets. The juxtaposition of the noisy, bustling train station and his peaceful slumber amused me, and I took out my sketchbook to capture it.

I put my pencil and sketchbook away when Noel's train pulled into the station, even though it would be at least half an hour before they even finished unloading the baggage car. Soon enough, though, passengers began to disembark, and I spotted Noel as he searched the platform. I made my way toward him and waved to get his attention, and he smiled and raised his hand in return.

"Hello," I said when I was close enough for him to hear me. "How was the journey?"

"Successful," Noel said, "but I'm glad it's over." He gestured with his valise. "This is all my luggage." He took my arm, and left the station to make our way to the truck in the parking lot.

"How's Caleb?" Noel said as we walked to the truck.

"He's well," I said, "but he had -- we all had -- a scare the other night." I told him about the incident with the fire, as well as Emmanuel's reaction and behavior since. Noel frowned throughout the entire story; by the time we were on the road out of the city, he was scowling out the window.

"I can't say I'm surprised," he said. "He was like that when we were children -- more with Simon than with me, to be honest, but any gentleness never lasted. God." He scrubbed his hand over his face.

"Do you think he believes in the family ghost?"

"I have no idea. He's heard the stories, I'm sure, but it may just be a story to him. I don't think you're going to convince him that anything odd that happens in the house is due to a haunting, not someone making mischief."

"As long as he's not blaming Caleb for it," I said, "he can blame it on anything he wants."

We drove for a few miles, then Noel said, "And you?"

"I missed you," I said. "A lot."

He smiled and reached over to stroke my hair. "Everyone will still be at church by the time we get back to the house."

"I think so," I said, and then grinned at him when I realized what he meant, and stepped a little harder on the gas.

We were already kissing frantically by the time we got through the front door, laughing as we got tangled in our own feet. "Upstairs, upstairs," Noel said, grabbing my tie, and in response I grabbed his fedora off his head and tossed it toward the hat rack.

Someone cleared his throat.

Noel froze. I closed my eyes as Noel slowly turned his head, but I didn't have to see our observer to know who he was.

"Father," Noel said in a calm voice, and stepped away from me.

Emmanuel sat in one of the armchairs in front of the central fireplace, with a full view of the vestibule. There could be no explaining or excusing what he had seen. My heart pounded against my ribs, and I clutched at the handle of my cane.

Emmanuel raised a folded piece of paper, held between two fingers. "I heard you go to his room the other night, Carmichael," he said, and turned the note in his fingers. "I decided I should see what you were ... visiting. But it turns out I didn't need to look for evidence, did I?" He tossed the note onto the floor.

"Father," Noel repeated as his body tensed, "whatever you think is going on--"

"I know exactly what's going on." Emmanuel rose from the chair and stalked to us. "Two faggots under my roof. You both disgust me."

"We prefer 'gay'," I said dryly, my gaze fixed on him.

Emmanuel backhanded me, hard enough to knock me off my feet and send my cane flying. Noel shouted, "Malcolm!" and Emmanuel reeled on him, grabbed my cane and hit Noel with it at the knee, sending him down with a cry. The sound only seemed to infuriate Emmanuel more, and he hit Noel repeatedly with the cane, on his face, on his ribs, on his legs, as he shouted, "Disgusting! Dirty! Queer!"

Noel curled in on himself under this onslaught. I crawled to Emmanuel and tried to yank him off his feet, and got his shoe in my face for my efforts. Blood gushed from my nose. I shouted, "Stop it, stop it!" but Noel didn't make a sound beyond grunts as the cane and Emmanuel's foot connected with his body. I tried to drag myself between him and Emmanuel, and Emmanuel hit me with the cane as well, hard enough on my head to make my ears ring.

Abruptly, the attack stopped. I looked up to see Emmanuel's face was red, verging on purple -- not just flushed with exertion but his eyes bulging, his lips blue, as if he were being strangled. He dropped the cane and his hands scrabbled at his throat. He lurched, and I draped myself over Noel as Emmanuel crumpled to the floor.

I dared to look at him. Emmanuel's body lay on the floor, his mouth -- his entire face -- slack. Above the body stood his ghost, his eyes wide in confusion.

He saw me see him.

And then he was gone.

In my arms, Noel shook and gasped for breath, and I whispered, "It's okay, baby. It's okay. It's over now. It's okay. You're okay," as I held him to me and kissed whatever I could of his hair and face.

Some minutes passed before Noel stopped shaking enough to meet my eyes. He wiped under my nose. "Never have a handkerchief when you need one."

I used my tie instead. "Can you sit up?"

"Yes." He sat up carefully, both hands on the floor, and gazed over my shoulder at Emmanuel's body. There were already bruises forming on his face where Emmanuel had hit him, and I had no doubt there were more on his ribs. "Is he--?"

"Yes," I said. "Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?"

"No," Noel said. "I'm -- I don't think he broke anything." He moved to Emmanuel, and looked down at him, his lips parted and his face like a lost child's. "He was going to kill me."

"Noel, no--"

"He was really going to do it this time." His hand clenched into a fist, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike the corpse, but instead he slapped his hand, hard, onto the floor beside Emmanuel's face.

I pulled myself to his side and put my arms around his neck. "He's never going to hurt you again," I said, my eyes searching his face, and would have gone on when every door in view, and no doubt throughout the house, slammed shut.

Noel and I both flinched, and Noel looked at the upper floors. "Who do you think that was?"

"Honestly? I think it was Simon saying 'good riddance.'"

Noel huffed without humor. "We need to call someone. A hospital, I think."

"Or they can tell us the right people to call." I reached for my cane as Noel got carefully to his feet.

"I'll do it. Let's hope the phones are working." He went down the passage to the nearest phone, one arm cradling his sore ribs, and as I watched him go a myriad of emotions filled my chest. My body ached and my head swam, but there was also a strange sense of elation and relief, and guilt at being elated and relieved. I wanted to lie on the floor and laugh until I wept. I want to hold and comfort Noel.

I heard Noel's voice, soft from the passage, "This is Noel Thibodeaux. I think my father's had a stroke," and I pushed myself to my feet so I could join him. I put my arm around his waist and lay my head on his shoulder, and he placed his hand over mine. "We haven't touched the body." He listened for a few minutes, gave directions to the house, and said, "Thank you." He hung up and leaned against me. "The coroner should be here in about twenty minutes, they said. You should probably wash your face."

I looked down at my shirt and tie, both bloodstained, especially around the collar. "I will." I looked up at him again. "You look like you had a bad Saturday night."

Noel gingerly touched the tender spots, wincing. "If anyone asks questions, we tell them the truth. To a point."

"To a point," I agreed. "Mrs. Bell and Caleb will be here soon. I have no idea where Willie is."

"Emmanuel may have sent him off somewhere. Maybe to drive Mrs. Bell and Caleb to church, since he was staying home." He looked out at the vestibule where Emmanuel's body lay, then buried his head in my neck and held me tight. I held his head and kissed his face, and neither of us moved until we heard the Packard pull into the drive. "I should -- we should --"

"We should ask Willie to take Caleb somewhere until the coroner leaves," I said, and Noel nodded in relief. "I'll do it. Stay here. Rest a bit." I ran my hand fondly over the uninjured side of his face, and went out to the carriage house -- remembering only at the last minute that I looked like someone had tried to slice my throat, and buttoned up my jacket to the top button to cover it as much as possible.

Mrs. Bell sat in the front seat with Willie, and both their eyes widened when they saw me. Willie leapt out, spry for a man his age, and said, "Mr. Noel--"

"He's all right. Willie," I paused while Mrs. Bell got out of the car too -- wearing her Sunday best down the white gloves, and I wished I had better news for her like I'd made dinner so she could relax -- and said, keeping my voice calm and quiet to avoid upsetting Caleb, "Emmanuel has had a stroke. He died. We've called the coroner's office and they're sending a van, but Noel and I think Caleb should be kept out of the house until they've taken the body."

I could see Caleb peeping at us from the back seat, and I tried to smile, though I suppose it looked ghoulish with my bloody face.

"I could take him to Mr. Christie's house," Willie said.

"That sounds good. Mrs. Bell, would you like to go with them or stay here?"

"I should be here," she said, and I noticed her eyes were wet. "Miss Fabienne would want me to be here."

I had no argument with that, and nodded. I let myself into the back seat of the car, where Caleb already looked wary, his eyebrows lowered. "Hey, little man," I said, and he crawled into my lap and put his arms around my neck. I patted his back. "Willie is going to take you to see Samuel for an hour or so." Caleb shook his head and I hugged him tighter. "I know, honey. Things are confusing right now, but we'll explain everything when you come back. You'll be happier with Samuel while the grown-ups take care of things here."

He lay his head on my shoulder a moment, then raised it and looked at me. He held my face and wiped it with his thumb, the way Noel sometimes did when Caleb has a milk mustache, and I smiled. "Thank you, honey," I said. "Will you go with Willie now? He'll bring you home before suppertime, hopefully sooner."

Caleb nodded solemnly. We hugged again and I put him off my lap, and climbed out of the car. Willie got into the driver sat again, and when he had pulled the Packard out of the carriage house, Mrs. Bell and I went inside.

***

In the vestibule, Noel sat on the floor at Emmanuel's side, his arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes were bright, but there was no sign of tears as he gazed at Emmanuel. He looked up when we came through the door and started to rise, but Mrs. Bell knelt on the floor beside him before he could and put her arms around his shoulders. "I'm so sorry, sugar," she whispered, "I'm so sorry," and stroked his face as he buried his face in her neck.

I hunkered down at Emmanuel's other side. His eyes were still open; I very gently closed them.

When Noel straightened up, he kept hold of Mrs. Bell's hand. "I don't feel sad," he said. "I know I should, but I don't feel sad."

"You feel whatever you need to feel," Mrs. Bell said, stroking his face again. She looked at me. "Go change your shirt, Mr. Malcolm. We don't want the doctor's people to ask more questions than they need to."

"Yes, ma'am." I started for the stairs, touching Noel's shoulder as I passed, and went to upstairs to clean up. I prodded my nose a bit while I was in the bathroom; it was tender but not broken. I knew what a broken nose felt like.

Wearing a clean shirt and my face washed, I went back downstairs where I found Mrs. Bell and Noel in armchairs by the fireplace, away from the body. They held hands as Noel told her in a low, calm voice what had led up to Emmanuel's stroke. Tears slipped from Mrs. Bell's eyes; I searched for a handkerchief, but only had my lighter, sketchbook, and three pencils in my pockets. She wiped her face with her gloved hand.

"If the doctor's people have questions, don't give them many details," she said when Noel was done. "He's been feeling poorly for some time. That's all they need to know."

"He's come near fainting at least twice, that I've seen," I said, and Mrs. Bell nodded slowly.

"Tell them so, if they ask."

"But what if they ask about the bruises?" Noel said.

"Tell them it happened while you were away," Mrs. Bell said. "You were in a different city on a Saturday night -- just tell them you got a little wild while you away from home. Emmanuel only hit you with the cane, didn't he? There's nothing on him to show he's the one who hit you."

Noel nodded slowly, and my heart went out to him -- he looked utterly exhausted, and the day was far from over. "At least you look better," he said to me.

"Thanks," I said wryly. "Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

"I'm fine. I'll take some aspirin and put ice on it later, when the coroner is gone."

I lay my hand lightly on his hair, and he leaned against me with a sigh. I stroked his hair until the coroner's van pulled into the front drive.

***

Noel called the Christies after the coroner's van left. I waited with him on the front steps, and after a few minutes of silence he said, "What should we tell Caleb?"

"The truth," I said. "He understands what death means, better than most kids his age." Noel sighed, and I said, "You're all right, and that'll be the most important thing to him right now."

He started to touch his bruised eye, then let his hand drop as the Packard came up the road.

Caleb jumped out of the car as soon as Willie brought it to a stop, and ran to Noel as we came to meet them in the carriage house. Noel scooped him up, and Caleb put his hands on Noel's face, his lips starting to tremble. "It's okay, honey," Noel said and kissed him quickly. "I got into a little fight. I'm fine, though. Let's go to the garden." He carried Caleb to the brick paths.

Willie and I both hesitated, uncertain if we should follow them. "What do you need me to do, Mr. Malcolm?" Willie said.

"I'm sure Mrs. Bell would appreciate some help with supper."

He nodded, looking relieved, and started for the house. Then he stopped and turned back to me. "Did he -- did Mr. Emmanuel suffer?"

"I don't think so," I said, though the memory of his purple face as he struggled for breath would not leave me soon. "It happened so fast."

He nodded again and went into the house, and I went to find Caleb and Noel.

Noel was sitting on one of the wrought iron benches around a oak tree, with Caleb on his knee. He said as I approached, "I thought we ought to wait for you."

"Thank you." I sat at his side.

"How's Willie?"

"Stoic." Caleb had lain his head on Noel's shoulder, and I tilted my head and smiled at him. "Did you have fun with Samuel, Caleb?"

Caleb shook his head and dropped his eyes, and Noel said, "Julia said he was too worried to play."

"Aw, peanut," I said, and Caleb took my hand.

Noel inhaled, and said, "Caleb, this is -- this hard to explain, but Grandfather Emmanuel has died. He's not going to be with us anymore."

Caleb looked from Noel to me, and I nodded to confirm it.

"Are you all right?" Noel said softly and ran his hand over Caleb's hair. "You can ask us any questions you have, if you want to."

Caleb blinked a few times, his lips trembling again, then abruptly threw his arms around Noel's neck. Noel closed his eyes and hugged Caleb back tightly. "It's all right, little man," he whispered. "It's all right. I'm not going anywhere."

I started to rise, thinking I should leave them alone, but then Noel caught my hand and looked up at me. "Don't go."

I sat again, a little closer, and put my arm around Noel. The three of us stayed there on the bench, holding each other, until Willie came to get us for a very late lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief violence, homophobia, character death.


	34. Breathing Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> A superstitious part of me said it couldn’t last, we’d be found out, we’d be separated somehow, but I refused to let it overtake my thoughts.

The rest of the day, we tried to make things as normal as possible for Caleb. Noel put Caleb in his play clothes and changed his suit for jeans and a T-shirt, as they normally did after church on Sundays. We went for a walk after lunch, read together until Caleb's nap time, and played outside in the afternoon as Tumnus stalked insects and thunderclouds gathered on the horizon. Mrs. Bell made Caleb's favorite dish for supper, roast chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans, and apple pie for dessert. Caleb didn't sulk or refuse his food, which was a good sign he was coping with this well, probably better than the adults.

The storm hit by Caleb's bedtime. Mrs. Bell had taken him upstairs for his bath, and Noel followed with his valise. Restless, I went through the house, making sure the windows were closed and the curtains drawn. Mrs. Bell had already stopped the clocks and Willie had covered the mirrors during the afternoon, but it seemed to me that these precautions only made the ever-present whispers seemed louder and harder to ignore.

The note Emmanuel had taken from Noel's room still lay on the floor of the vestibule, forgotten in all the commotion. I picked it up and unfolded it to read the words again, and then folded it and put it away in my sketchbook. It meant as much to me as it had the night I wrote it, but after all of this I didn't know if Noel would want to keep it.

Upstairs, I hesitated at Emmanuel's room, and then went in to close his curtains. Before I crossed the room to the window, my attention was drawn to his bureau, a heavy wood piece with a square mirror fixed on top which was now covered with a blanket. Along with the storage boxes for his watches and a valet tray for his cufflinks and tie pins, there was a single picture frame. I had never been in Emmanuel's room before this; I felt bold enough to pick up the frame.

It held a Emmanuel and Fabienne's wedding portrait. Fabienne was lovely in her simple white wedding dress and veil, with curly dark hair and sweet blue eyes, and a full mouth like Noel and Simon's. Emmanuel looked overjoyed and proud, an expression I'd never seen him wear during my time here. He'd been a handsome young man before war and loss left their mark on him.

I put the frame down carefully. Noel might want to keep this picture even if he put it away in an album, if only for the record of his mother.

As I turned to leave, lightning flashed and the blanket slipped off the mirror. I went back to the bureau to replace it when I saw movement in the reflection.

I paused, still holding the blanket.

A shadow appeared behind my shoulder. Human-shaped, tall.

I said softly, "Simon."

The shadow didn't move.

I said, still soft, "Did you do that to Emmanuel today? Did you -- had you had enough?"

The shadow shifted, and I braced myself, unsure of what he would do, but then thunder clapped and lightning flashed, its light hitting the mirror and dazzling my eyes. I rubbed them, and by the time the echoes had cleared from my vision the shadow was gone.

I re-hung the blanket over the mirror and left Emmanuel's room.

 

***

 

I thought Caleb might want Noel to stay with him at bedtime, but when I peeked into his room, he was already asleep, the fairy lamp casting soft comforting light. Mrs. Bell rocked herself slowly in the rocking chair as she watched him.

I tapped softly on the door and she looked up. "Oh, Mr. Malcolm. You startled me."

"Sorry," I whispered and came into the room. "How is he?"

"Sleeping peacefully," she said. "I suspect he'll be the only one who does tonight."

"I suspect you're right." We both watched Caleb, and I said, "You don't have to call me Mister. I should have said so a long time ago. You can just call me Malcolm."

She rocked the chair, then said, "Maybe in this house, I can."

It was a gentle rebuke. I said, "I suppose I didn't want to rock the boat."

"Some boats could use a little more rocking." She took my hand. "Look after Noel tonight. He didn't want to say, but it's not hard to see the two of you are sweethearts. Look after him. He needs someone to ease his mind."

"I will." I kissed her hand -- I felt enormous affection for everyone in the house tonight -- and left to find Noel.

It wasn't far to look. He was in his room, unpacking his valise. I knocked on the door and said, "How are you holding up?"

Noel huffed. "I forgot to unpack." He placed his work boots in the wardrobe.

I stood there for a moment, debating, then said, "Do you want this back?" as I took then note from my sketchbook and held it out to him.

Noel looked at it, and then took it gently from my fingers. He turned it over and over. "Sometimes I take it with me when I go away. I like having it close by." He looked up at me. "I should have this time."

"If it weren't this note, it would have been something else," I said. I hid away my more scandalous sketchbooks carefully, of course, including those with nude portraits of Noel; still, Emmanuel could have found them if he were determined enough.

Noel huffed again as he placed a pair of trousers in his laundry hamper. "I suppose so."

I watched him move about for a few moments more, placing ties on their rack and putting worn clothing into the hamper. We had placed ice on his eye and witch hazel on our bruises earlier that day, but there had to be more I could do to help him feel better and ease his mind. "Should we go downstairs? I'll make you some warm milk."

Noel paused, then turned to me, holding the now-empty valise. "Will you tell me something? And be honest -- don't be afraid if it's painful."

"Ask me."

"You saw him go. Emmanuel -- you saw him leave his body. That's how you knew he was dead."

I nodded.

"How -- what does it look like? Death, I mean."

When I died, it looked like nothing -- and then it looked like my brother as snow fell around and through him. But Noel's question wasn't about me. I said, "He looked confused. He looked at me like he knew I could see him, and then he was gone."

Noel sat on his bed. He looked tired again, after putting on a cheerful face for Caleb all afternoon; I went to him and wrapped my arm around his shoulders. He turned to me and buried his face in my neck.

"I don't feel sad. Shouldn't I feel sad? He was my father."

"Grief is weird," I said and he huffed against my neck. "It's anger and regret and sadness and so many other things, and if you don't feel one now you might feel it later. Or you might not."

"I just feel numb."

I kissed his hair and rubbed his back. "What do you need me to do for you?"

"I don't ... I don't know." He lifted his head. "Will you stay with me? Talk to me?"

"Of course, baby," I said and held his face in my hands so I could kiss him. "Of course I will."

His eyes closed when I kissed him, and he tucked his head against my neck again. "Tell me more about San Francisco."

I stroked his hair, loving the way the ends wanted to curl around my fingers. "It's especially foggy this time of year," I said. "But when the weather is clear, the air is like crystal. The sky is the purest, sweetest blue. Even the ocean seems calmer -- you can see why the explorers named it Peaceful when they first saw it."

"Do you swim in the ocean?"

"You can, though the water is cold so you can't stay in long. And you can't go out far. The currents are strong enough to be dangerous. We'd picnic on the beach -- and you have to bring a blanket, the sand is coarse -- and go wading. There used to be a bathhouse for rich people up in the hills, but it burned down when I was a boy." Noel inhaled slowly, and I smiled down at him. "Want to talk about something else?"

"No ... no. I want a full picture, good and bad."

"There's a lot that's bad, too, just like every other city," I said. "But there's a lot of good, too. Sometime I'll have to tell you about Emperor Norton."

"I'm intrigued already." He stroked my chest slowly, his expression thoughtful. "The day I left Fidele to go to college, I swore I'd never come back. I had a scholarship and I was willing to work to pay whatever other expenses I had. I was never going to ask Emmanuel for anything again. Simon ... Simon tried to be brave. He was going to Tulane, he had Grace, he was going to be fine. But he didn't want me to go so far away."

I stroked his arm.

"I promised him then that I'd never leave him. No matter what else happened, I'd never go where he couldn't find me. Even during the war, we wrote to each other almost every day. I got bundles of letters from him, saved up over weeks. When he died -- when he -- I was so angry. He wasn't supposed to leave me. He wasn't supposed to die first."

I said softly, "He's never far from you. He loves you so much."

He nodded, solemn. "You've seen him, haven't you?"

"I've seen him."

"How does he--" Noel stopped and swallowed, blinking hard. "How does he look?"

I put my arms around Noel's neck. He hugged me to him and pressed the unbruised side of his face against mine. I whispered, "He looks fine. He looks just fine. The first few times I saw him, I thought he was you."

"If he were -- if he looked burned -- I don't think I could bear it."

I rubbed his back. It was hard to say with ghosts; sometimes I could see how they'd died, as with the rope burns around Daniel's neck; sometimes I only knew they were dead because of how the living walked right through them. "If it helps any, I don't think he suffered. I don't think either of them suffered."

"God, I hope not." He gave a broken sort of laugh. "I miss Simon. I miss Grace. I won't miss Emmanuel. He was a terrible father, and he wasn't even that good of a judge. But he was still my father."

"Every child wants their parent to love them," I said. "You lost both of yours the day you were born, even if Emmanuel was around physically. That's hard to recover from."

"Simon did. I doubt he and Grace sat up nights and talked about how hard it was to have a father who hated you -- and he didn't have to cope with the army seeing how broken he was and making him into a weapon."

"Noel, Noel," I said, "you're extraordinary. I'm sure Simon was wonderful -- Caleb alone is proof of that -- but I don't think he was as extraordinary as you."

Noel kissed me sweetly, and holding my face. "Someday I'm going to disappoint you."

"Nope," I said. "Even when you mess up, I'll forgive you."

"Yeah?" he murmured and stroked my cheekbones with his thumbs. "Promise you'll always forgive me?"

"Promise." I closed my eyes with a shiver. "Will you always forgive me?"

"Promise." He kissed my mouth again, gentle but deep, careful of my sore nose.

I had enough sense to say, "We should close the door," and Noel broke off kissing me.

"You should go to bed."

"I'll go to bed with you."

"Malcolm --"

I grasped his hand. "I'm not afraid. I'm not worried about anything but you. I love you -- I'm not going to let a ghost get in the way of showing you."

Noel studied my face, and then kissed me, harder than before. "I love you," he said, and got up to close the door.

 

***

 

We lay on our sides, gazing at each other, our faces cradled in our hands. We both smiled, just a little.

Noel's hair curled over his eyes. I reached over and brushed it out of the way. "I love the way you wear this."

"It's too long." He shook his head. "I look like some kind of bohemian."

"Let's move to Paris and live in an attic, then," I said. "We'll fit right in."

He laughed, and then gazed at me fondly. "If I wanted to go, would you come with me?"

"In a heartbeat."

"We can, now. We could. We could go anywhere. Though," he said as he moved closer, "I suspect I oughtn't move Caleb too soon. It'll be hard enough on the little guy, leaving everything behind."

"Maybe after a month or so," I said. "At least as long as you need to get everything settled and sold and whatever else needs doing."

"It'll probably depend on the terms of Emmanuel's will," Noel said, "but the sooner I can get this place off my hands, the better." He settled against me with his back to my chest, so I could spoon him. I kissed his hair and wrapped my arm around his chest as we sprawled against the pillows, careful of the tender spots. "Tomorrow. I'll deal with it tomorrow. Funeral plans and all."

"We could take Caleb to Paris," I said, my lips against his hair. "I'd love to see how Paris is recovering from the war."

Noel took my hand and kissed my palm. "I'd love for you to show me Paris." He kissed my hand again and held it to his chest. "I love your hands. They make such beautiful things, and they touch me just right."

I smiled and kissed his neck. "You brought back the music in me. I love you for that."

Noel turned over and leaned on his elbow so he could look at my face. "I love that you have freckles." He kissed across my cheekbones.

"I love your reading glasses," I answered with a soft laugh. "Every time I see you wearing them, I expect you to quote poetry."

"I don't know much poetry. I'll have to learn some." His expression grew serious as he cradled my cheek in his hand. "Malcolm, I'm ... not a good person."

"Noel," I began in protest.

"Hear me out. I'm no paragon of virtue. I've spent most of my life being angry and afraid. I killed a lot of men during the war. I genuinely hate quite a few people -- some of whom will be coming to the funeral."

I put my hand over his and stroked it with my thumb. "Let me deal with them, then."

"Maybe I will," he said. "But my point is, since I met you, I haven't been afraid. I'm rarely angry. It doesn't matter if other people think I'm good or not -- you make me feel like the best person in the world."

My eyes stung. I moved his hand to my mouth and kissed his palm, hard. We curled into each other, needing to touch again.

"Tell me about your first love," I said some time later. Noel huffed, his body shifting under my head as I used it for a makeshift pillow. "You must have had one."

"I had one." He combed his fingers through my hair. "He was the assistant swim coach during my senior year of high school. He wanted me to swim on the school team but knew I didn't want people to see my scars, so he found a seamstress in town to make a long-sleeved shirt for me from swimsuit material. The day he gave that shirt to me was the first time I kissed him."

Noel was quiet for a while. I said, "What happened then?"

"We slept together a few times before I graduated. I was completely infatuated with him. He had curly blond hair, freckles on his shoulders..." He traced my arm with his fingertips. "He was from Tybee Island, off the coast of Georgia. He'd learned to swim as soon as he learned to walk. His people were fishermen and apparently none of his family believed he could make a living teaching people to swim."

"More fool them," I murmured.

"Hm." He inhaled deeply. "He was also a bit of a socialist. When the war in Spain started, he quit coaching to go fight fascists." He inhaled deeply again. "I wrote him for months, care of his parents, but he never wrote back. The only letter I got was from his mother about a year after he left, to tell me he'd been killed driving an ambulance and buried in Spain, because they couldn't afford to ship the body home."

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Thank you." He played with my ear. "He didn't break my heart. He loved me, but he loved his ideals, too. In the end, they're what he died for."

I blurted out, "I promise I will never love an ideal more than you."

"Well," he whispered, "that's a good promise. I like that one a lot." He tipped up my head and kissed me, and I smiled as I resettled my head on his chest.

 

***

 

I woke slowly, the warmth of the sun on my arms and back. I didn't open my eyes at first, so I could enjoy the lethargy of waking in the late morning naturally and not from a nightmare.

I felt a hand on my cheek -- Noel was awake too. I smiled, eyes still closed, and only went on smiling as Noel stroked my lips with his thumb. "Good morning."

I kissed his palm. "Good morning."

"I don't want to get out of bed yet."

"Neither do I."

Noel sighed and moved closer to me so he could lay his head on my chest. I moved onto my back and curled my arm around him. "Tell me more about San Francisco."

"The houses are all kinds of styles," I said. "Probably the most famous in the city are the painted ladies, the tall and narrow Victorian houses painted in bright colors. Our house, the house I grew up in, is round and squat, and painted different shades of brown and cream. There's a turret on one side that my mother made into a reading nook, with a cushioned bench all around and low shelves for lamps that we always had to remember to take out when we were done reading, in case of earthquakes. Our street goes down toward the beach, and when I was a kid and couldn't sleep at night, I'd open the window and listen to the waves. I still sleep best to the sound of the ocean."

"Mm," Noel murmured. "It sounds beautiful."

"It really is."

We lay there, quiet and slowly breathing, until Noel said, "I need to call Emmanuel's lawyer, and the firm that handles making the family tombs, and I should let work know I'm not coming in for a while. And I need to contact the newspaper for a death notice."

"People will start coming by today," I said, "to offer their condolences, and maybe bring casseroles."

He snorted. "I'm sure they will. Mrs. Bell can handle them." He raised his head to look at me. I knew I should have been concentrating on Emmanuel's death, even mourning him a little, but instead I was captivated with the way Noel looked in the morning light, his skin rosy and his eyes bright. "I'm so glad you're here."

I cupped his face in my palm and he closed his eyes. "What do you need me to do?"

"Plan the funeral, stand in my place in the procession, accept the flag from the honor guard..."

"I think you'll have to do at least one of those," I said, smiling.

He didn't. "I know. I just don't want to. Three funerals in a year, Jesus." He dropped his head to my chest. His voice was muffled when he said, "I planned Grace and Simon's funeral, too, but I don't remember any of it. It's just a blur now." He placed his hand over my hip, covering the scars. "I wish I'd known you then."

"I don't know how we would have met before we did. I think we met at exactly the moment we needed to."

"True." His thumb stroked my hipbone. "I've reached the point where I don't want to think about my life without you." He looked up at me again. "I'm pretty gone for you, Malcolm Carmichael. I hope you realize that."

"I realize it," I said. "It's mutual."

"Good." He kissed me, and then sat up and stretched. I wanted to lean over and bite the magnificent muscles in his back, but I only ran my hand over them and Noel looked at me over his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

 

***

 

"Caleb has outgrown his dress shoes," Mrs. Bell said at breakfast. We all looked at Caleb, who went on eating, unconcerned. "I'd like to take him into the city for a new pair, and do the grocery shopping while we're there. There'll be be lots of folks here after the funeral and they'll expect to be fed."

"All right," Noel said. "Just use the household account. Our growing boy," he added fondly, and Caleb leaned his head against Noel's arm.

The three of them were on their way within the hour -- Willie at the wheel, as Mrs. Bell had never learned to drive -- and Noel and I sat down in the library to prepare for his phone calls. He made a list on one of his legal pads of who to call and what to say, while I worked on the usual worksheets for Caleb, which were growing increasingly complicated every week. Not just single words now, but whole sentences in English and French, and pictures to help him understand his new vocabulary. I left blank spaces for him to draw pictures of the words, too, the best way I'd found to test his understanding.

Noel brought the downstairs telephone to the study table. "I suppose I could use Emmanuel's office," he said as he dialed the first number. "I've never been comfortable there."

"Give yourself time," I said.

"Seems like I've got an overabundance of that now." He said in a more brisk tone, "Joan, it's Noel. Is Adrian in?" I reached over to rub Noel's shoulders as he waited. "Adrian, hi. I -- my father died," he said simply, and moved closer so he could lean against me. "I hate to keep disappearing on you, but--" He fell silent, and said, "Thank you," after a moment or two of listening. "I know it just increases the workload for everybody." His boss must have argued with that, because Noel's eyes grew wet and he said, "Well, yes, but that's just being a good employee." More from his boss, then Noel said, "Yes, absolutely. I'll let you know when it's scheduled. Thank you, Adrian. Let's talk about the relocation plans next week. Thank you again. Goodbye." He hung up and rubbed his hand over his face.

"He really must value you," I said.

"He really does. He reminded me of all the times I've stepped in for people who've had family emergencies, and said nobody minds doing the same for me. He wants to come to the funeral, to pay his respects."

"That's kind of him." I kissed his hair. "And relocation plans?"

"It's going to happen, we just have to figure out where and when. Adrian thinks San Francisco would be the best location for the new office. I agree, but are you sure you can handle it there? Because I'd be satisfied with Los Angeles or Seattle, and Adrian says ultimately it's up to me."

"It's home," I said. "No matter what else happens, it'll always be home. But won't you miss New Orleans?"

"It won't break my heart to leave," Noel said. "There'll always be history here, and not all of it worth remembering. I think being in a new place will only do us good." He tapped his fingers on the legal pad. "Newspaper next."

"Deep breath," I said, and he took a deep breath before dialing the next number.


	35. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> It doesn’t matter if other people think I’m good or not — you make me feel like the best person in the world.

Emmanuel's funeral service was held in the St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter, off Jackson Square where we'd sung Christmas carols back in December. The Thibodeaux family had attended services at the cathedral since it was built, and according to Noel the family had even helped to pay for it to be rebuilt after the original structure burned in the late 1700s. 

I had never been inside before. When walking in Jackson Square I had wandered the grounds a bit, which were beautiful and green, but I was never fond of churches. If you love art you need to understand something about religion, as so much art was created for the church and its officials, but no amount of art made me into a religious man.

Willie drove us all into the city, he and Mrs. Bell in the front seat, Noel, Caleb and I in the back. Noel had been quiet all morning; had said little, in fact, since he met with Emmanuel's lawyer a few days before to plan the funeral and hear the will. I had asked him how it went, and he shrugged, saying, "He left everything to Caleb," in a neutral tone. He let me know the details later: all of Emmanuel's property was left to Caleb, and as Caleb's guardian Noel was to receive a yearly allowance to pay for Caleb's needs, and was to keep the farm intact until Caleb was of age. According to the lawyer, Emmanuel hadn't planned to leave much property or money to Simon, either, and had updated his will to focus on Caleb when Caleb was still an infant.

Emmanuel had left small legacies to Mrs. Bell, Willie, and Alex Christie, and to a few other friends and employees. Still, it seemed terribly cold to me, to cut out Noel so completely, but Noel was stoic: even if Emmanuel had left him more than a stipend, he didn't want it.

I ruminated on this as we drove into the city. I walked into the cathedral with Noel and Caleb, Noel holding Caleb by the hand. Caleb looked very grown-up in his best suit, and his expression was solemn. He reached for my hand, too, as we walked.

I said softly to Noel, over his head, "I'll bring him out here if it gets to be too much."

Noel nodded. "All right." He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and we climbed the steps and went into the cathedral.

Inside, Noel led us down the patterned aisle to the front pew as the cathedral's organ played "Amazing Grace." Once we were seated Noel's face took on a neutral expression, calm but distant. Between us in the pew, Caleb looked from me to Noel, and then twisted back to look at the back pews -- the colored section, where Mrs. Bell and Willie sat. I looked too, curious to see who else had come, and smiled a bit to see Cozy and many others from the 4/4. Other familiar faces caught my eye as I looked around -- the Gaspards, the Christies, Dorian Mayeux, even Caleb's therapist Dr. Dufresne.

They were a comforting sight compared to Emmanuel's cronies, who stopped at the pew to give their condolences to Noel and to smile benignly at Caleb. Noel accepted their sympathy quietly, and Caleb crowded against my side and tried not to meet any strangers' eyes. I kept an arm around him, and after the mass began I took out my sketchbook and drew little pictures with speech bubbles for him to fill in. (It turned out that most of the pictures were about Samuel, knights, or Tumnus.)

The funeral was better-attended than I expected, the pews full; but I supposed since Emmanuel had been a well-respected lawyer and judge for decades, and had served during the Great War, there were a great many people who knew and remembered him. The chief of police was there, and the district attorney, as were several city officials and other officers of the court, along with their wives and sometimes children and grandchildren.

Throughout it all, Noel never wavered, but never seemed entirely present, either. He looked up during the eulogy, delivered by another judge from the city court, but once that was done he went back into his own thoughts.

I wanted to reach for him and comfort him, but it would have to wait until we were alone again. I focused on Caleb instead, even with a handkerchief at the ready in case he began to cry. He didn't. Neither did Noel. Neither did I.

***

The mass ended and the pallbearers bore the coffin out to the hearse. Noel and Caleb followed it out of the church, Noel holding Caleb's hand again. The sight of him walking with his head high and his shoulders square made me so proud; no one looking at him would guess that he hated every second of this.

They went back to Fidele in a limousine provided by the funeral home. I rode with Willie and Mrs. Bell, both of whom were quiet on the drive. I supposed they both had future plans to consider. Noel had not spoken to anyone but me about moving to California, but he would once the funeral was dealt with, and he didn't think either of them would want to come with us. Willie was in his sixties; he had grandchildren and a great-grandchild on the way, and more family besides that he wouldn't want to leave behind. Mrs. Bell's only child had been killed during the war when the submarine where he was a cook was sunk by the Japanese, but she still had sisters, her husband's family, and all of their generations. I didn't think starting over was in the stars for them the way it was for us.

I didn't blame them. Leaving everything you know behind is a tough step to take. I had fallen in love with New Orleans much as I had with Noel, and the thought of leaving it was not an easy one; it could only be harder for someone who'd lived there all their lives.

Still, I meant it when I said I would go anywhere if Noel was with me, and I would have gone to Seattle or Los Angeles or any other place Noel's firm sent him; but I loved the thought of taking him home.

And San Francisco was my home. It would always be my home. I was done running away; I wanted to go home and I wanted Noel with me, in the hope it would be a home for him, too.

When we reached Fidele, the drive was lined with stately black cars, and mourners trickled through the gardens and down the path to the family cemetery.

Willie parked the Packard in the garage and turned off the engine, which ticked a few times. I got out to open the door for Mrs. Bell, and she squeezed my arm lightly. "Go on to Noel, Malcolm," she said. "I have to make sure the house is ready."

"Don't you want to see the service?"

"I've seen enough," she said and started for the house.

"Do you need anything more from me?" Willie asked me.

"No, thank you."

He nodded and caught up to Mrs. Bell. "Let me keep you company, Leila," I heard him say, and she took his arm.

I followed the mourners to the graveyard. It was a peaceful April day, a breeze stirring the trees and long grass, the sound of the river distant and soft. The firm that made the tombs for the family had completed their work the day before, and the funeral home had set up chairs beside Emmanuel and Fabienne's tomb. Noel and Caleb sat in the front row. I stayed back at the edge of the crowd, until Noel turned around and saw me, and gave me a small, tired smile.

I came to him then, and sat in the empty chair beside him. We looked at each other, and I put my arm over the back of his chair.

We all stood, the men removing our hats or saluting, when the hearse pulled carefully up the narrow track. An honor guard from the local Army Reserve brought the coffin to the tomb, and lay a flag over it. We sat again, and a military chaplain came forward. The eulogy at the church had talked about his history as a public servant to the city and the people of New Orleans; this was the record of Emmanuel's military service, the unit he had served with during the Great War and the honors he had received.

Listening to all of this, one would have thought Emmanuel Thibodeaux was a good man -- but I had kissed the bruises he left on his son that very morning. Maybe he could have been, if Fabienne had lived, or if he hadn't gone overseas. Maybe that darkness had always been in him.

As the chaplain spoke, I could only pity Emmanuel -- not for dying, but for cutting himself off so completely from his children's love. Noel had so much love to give and from what I knew of Simon, so had he. They had wanted to love their father, and Emmanuel hadn't let them.

The officer in charge asked us to rise. Caleb held hands as three riflemen raised their guns to fire a salute. Noel flinched at the first volley, and when he did, Caleb leaned his head against Noel's side.

At a respectful distance, a bugler began to play "Taps." I watched Noel; his face was still calm, but it seemed to me that he was having a harder time keeping it so.

When "Taps" was done, we sat again. The leader of the honor guard folded the flag and gave it to the officer in charge, and then the honor guard left the gravesite. The officer in charge brought the folded flag to Noel, and presented it to him with the familiar words of thanks from a grateful nation. Noel took the flag silently, but his face twisted and for a moment his eyes were wet.

All that was left was for the chaplain to finish the service, and for the mourners to leave the gravesite for the house. Noel remained seated, holding the folded flag. Caleb swung his feet, waiting for him.

After a few minutes I said, "Noel?"

He started, as if he'd forgotten where he was. "Now it's going to be three or four hours of listening to how wonderful Emmanuel was." He looked at me. "Could we run away?"

"I'm all for it," I said. "Let's go back to the city and get beignets somewhere near the river."

"Wish we could." Caleb looked back and forth between us, confused. Noel said, "We're not running away, peanut. We're just ... making-believe." He nodded toward the house. "Let's go."

I got to my feet and Caleb reached for my hand. I gave it a squeeze and held it as we walked back to the house.

The vestibule was full of people already by the time we arrived. The staff from the catering service Noel had hired circulated among them with trays of drinks and food.

Conversation paused when we came in and Emmanuel's friends looked at us as if they'd forgotten we existed. Noel's face went blank again, and Caleb looked up at him with uncertainty.

Angelique Gaspard broke off from the little group of our friends at the edge of the room, and said, "Noel," as she came to us.

"Angelique," he replied tiredly, and she wrapped her arms around him. He closed his eyes and hugged her back, exhaling. After a moment, Rene Gaspard came to us and hugged them both; so did Dorian, and Julia and Alex, and me; until we were all a big circle around Noel like a protective wall.

When Noel finally lifted his head his eyes were wet again. "Thank you," he said and laughed at himself as he wiped his eyes. "I'm all right. Please, eat. Talk. It'll do us all good."

Angelique held his face and kissed his cheek, and then let him go to put her arm around Rene and go back to the meal.

"Malcolm," Noel said quietly as our friends moved away, "will you look after Caleb for a while? I need to play host."

"Of course." I steered Caleb to the staircase, and we found a quiet spot a few risers up where we could watch the vestibule and stay out of the way of the adults. One of the catering staff brought us glasses of milk and sandwiches, and a plate of Mrs. Bell's chocolate chip cookies. I took out my sketchbook again and drew a frame for tic-tac-toe, and we played and ate, and ignored the grown-ups as much as we could.

Julia and Alex Christie came to join us before long, and Alex managed to make Caleb giggle with his drawing of the chief of police's red face and deep nostrils.

While most of the party ignored us, one man in particular looked our way more than once, and finally broke off to make his way to the stairs. "Could I join you?" he asked us in general. "I'm Adrian Gradney. I don't really know anyone here but Noel."

"Oh, you're Noel's boss," I said and made room for him on the steps. "Of course you may. I'm Malcolm Carmichael." I made introductions around as Adrian got comfortable with his plate on his knee, and Caleb looked at him with curiosity.

Adrian said hello to everyone, and said to Caleb, "Hi, Caleb. I've heard a lot about you."

That made Caleb smile shyly and hide his face against my arm. I patted his hair.

I had lost track of Noel by then; but got to my feet when a commotion in the vestibule rose above the rest of the talk. Everyone fell silent as Noel said to one of the black-clad old men in his coldest tone, "You're exactly right, getting Simon and me out of Children's Aid was exactly the right thing to do. God knows nothing was wrong in this house -- no abuse, no neglect, nothing that would make us run away. You did exactly the right thing."

Caleb tensed at the sound of raised voices. I put my hand on his shoulder and murmured to Julia, "Would you keep an eye on him?"

"Of course," Julia answered and I got my cane and went to Noel. I put my hand on his back, which was tense, his shoulders hunching.

"Allow me to introduce you to Claude Chabaud," Noel said, his voice still cold. "A very old friend of my father's."

"Malcolm Carmichael," I said and didn't offer my hand.

Claude Chabaud didn't offer his, either -- he was focused on Noel. "You were just a child. You don't remember--"

"I remember everything."

Despite the coldness of his voice, I could feel how hard he was trembling, his self-control on the verge of breaking. I wanted to slide my hand inside his jacket, comfort him with my skin on his, but I only left my hand on his back and stroked him in small circles.

"Why did you do it?" I said to Chabaud. "They were in Children's Aid for a reason."

"Boys belong with their father," he replied.

"Not a father who beats them," I said and one of the nearby women -- Mrs. Chabaud, I assumed -- gasped in shock.

"Don't speak ill of the dead!" she exclaimed.

Noel turned on her, his face hard and his eyes like knives, and when she shrank from him he said, "I have to get out of here," and left the vestibule.

I took a quick look at Caleb and the group on the stairs -- Julia was playing a clapping game with him now, and when our eyes met she nodded -- and went after Noel.

I caught up to him in the gardens, where he was pacing by the head of the path to the cemetery and shoving his hands through his hair. "Noel," I said, and then called louder, "Noel!" and reached out to grasp his shoulder.

He started, and then looked at me with an expression of such complete misery that I ignored the fact that the house was full of people who could have us arrested, and pulled him into my arms. "Sh, sh," I said, and stroked his hair and kissed his face. "Sh, sh."

Noel buried his face in my shoulder. He hit my other shoulder with his fist, not hard enough to hurt, and I took his hand and kissed it, too.

"Talk to me," I said, but he shook his head.

"Not now. Later, when everyone's gone. I can't -- I can't face them. All those smiles and lies." He lifted his head from my shoulder. "You know they're going to go home and talk about me -- about us, the poor Thibodeauxes. They'll rehash every bit of gossip there ever was. They'll talk about how I killed my mother."

"You didn't," I said. I held his face between my hands and kissed his mouth. "You didn't kill her. She died, that's all."

His eyes filled and he shook his head, and then buried his face in my neck again. "I can't go back in there."

"Then we'll stay out here." I kept an arm around him and led him to one of the benches under a tree. He clung to my hand and his head hung low, and I rubbed his back and rested my head on his shoulder.

We stayed outside until the last of the black cars pulled away. Rene came outside not long after that, and stood in front of us with his hands on his hips. "Caleb wants you, Noel," he said.

Noel raised his head, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands loose. "Is he all right?"

"He's frightened and worried about you."

Noel exhaled and said to me, "Let's go inside."

I nodded and started pulling myself upright, when Noel -- already standing -- bent and kissed me, right in front of Rene. I couldn't speak for a moment, I was so surprised.

"Thank you," he said quietly, and then offered a hand to help me up.

***

Our friends lingered a bit longer, waiting for us while Noel and I both changed clothes and put Caleb in his play clothes; the women took off their shoes and the men loosened their ties, and as we ate leftovers for dinner we even got Noel to laugh as Dorian told us stories about interesting people he met in the courthouse and Angelique told us stories about her students.

When we had said good night and gave Caleb to Mrs. Bell to put to bed, I took one of the picnic blankets from the linen closet and told Noel, "Come on. Let's get lost for a while."

We went out to one of the resting sugar cane fields. Noel helped me spread the blanket on the grass, and we lay on our backs and watched the stars blink into sight and the moon rise.

Noel said, "I was hospitalized after Emmanuel beat me so badly. The doctors and nurses kept asking me questions: Who had done this? Had he hit me before or was this the first time? Had I told anyone at school or at church?" He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. "I don't even remember what I said, I was so out of my head on drugs and pain, but I know that Simon was taken away from Fidele that night, and when I was released from the hospital Children's Aid took me to the same foster parents where they had taken Simon."

I watched him speak as he stared at the sky.

"The family Children's Aid placed us with, the Carpenters, were an older couple whose children were grown and moved out. They had a little house on Lowerline Street with an enormous back garden, and Simon would come into my room after playing so he could share everything he'd discovered with me. When I was strong enough to sit up for a while, Mr. Carpenter would carry me outside and let me sit in a lounge chair in the shade. Mrs. Carpenter would read to me, and she sat up with me when I had nightmares." Noel paused. I stroked the back of his hand with my thumb. "She let me cry when I needed to. She never once told me boys don't cry." He paused again. "It was the happiest three weeks of my life."

I turned onto my side so I could put my hand on his chest. He placed both of his on top of mine.

"And then," he took a deep breath, "Claude Chabaud filed a defamation of character suit against the hospital on behalf of my father, and threatened to sue the Carpenters as well as Children's Aid. The Carpenters were completely cowed by my father, so they gave us back to him without a fight."

I propped myself on my elbow and kissed him. He kissed me back, soft, and when we parted he tucked his head in the crook of my neck. I stroked his hair.

"He knew people were watching him now," Noel said after we'd just held each other in silence for some time. "He didn't hit me anymore. But as soon as he could, he sent me to boarding school and Simon stayed in New Orleans."

"I'm so sorry," I said, stroking his cheek. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

Noel nodded, his hair tickling my neck. "People tell me it made me stronger. If I could survive my father hating me from the day I was born, I could survive anything."

I hugged him to me a little tighter. "And here you are. You survived."

He laughed, quiet and dry, and then pushed me onto my back and held himself over me. "I love you," he said. "It terrifies me."

"Why?" I ran my hands up and down his arms. "Don't say it's because of the curse."

"It's because of the curse," he said, "and it's because I've never been allowed to keep someone I really wanted. The Carpenters, Simon, anyone I've ever allowed myself to care about. I'm still afraid that some night Caleb will disappear and this time we won't find him. And you -- you make everything so -- so vibrant --"

I kissed him, pressing my body up against his. He kissed me back desperately, his fingers in my hair, his body dragging over mine as if he meant to claim every inch of me.

"I love you," I gasped when his mouth left mine to ravage my throat. "I love you too -- I will keep every bad thing from you -- I'll fight monsters for you, I'll fight fate --"

Noel held my face in his hands and looked at me with intense, serious eyes. "Malcolm, anything could happen."

"And I would do anything for you, sweet Noel." It may have been that I was babbling in the throes of lust -- his body was so delicious and I couldn't get enough of it -- but at that moment, it felt as if my heart was bound to his. I would do anything. I would protect him from anyone. I would never let another person raise a hand to him again.

I whispered this to him as we kissed, as we took off each other's clothes, and didn't stop promising to love him for always until I slid down his body and took him in my mouth. Noel's moans were quiet, his fingers gentle as they cupped around the back of my head, and his body trembled as he came.

***

We went back into the house eventually, after we'd caught our breathes and put on our clothes. We walked with our arms around each other, and stopped frequently to kiss again and lean our heads together. The house seemed unusually quiet and it took me a moment to realize why -- no whispers, no creaks, no heavy footsteps on the landing above. Maybe our ghosts had taken the night off.

"Come to bed," I said after we'd climbed the stairs, tugging on Noel's hips by the belt loops. "Sleep with me tonight."

"I will. I want to check on Caleb first."

I kissed him, and we went down the passage to Caleb's room. As usual, his fairy lamp was lit and Tumnus slept at his side. Mrs. Bell sat in the rocking chair nearby, watching him sleep.

"Mrs. Bell," Noel said softly as he went into the room, "you don't need to sit up with him."

"Oh, I don't mind, sugar," Mrs. Bell replied. "I feel better knowing he's not on his own."

"We've taken precautions to protect him."

She smiled to herself. "That little bit of gris-gris around his neck, you mean? It's a step, I suppose."

Noel huffed with a glance to me, and then knelt on the floor at her feet. "Since you're here, there's something we need to talk about. My firm wants to move me to California to open a new office. I've agreed to go, and I'm taking Malcolm and Caleb with me. I'll talk to Willie about it but I assume he'll want to stay here with his family. Would you want to come with us? Start over in a new city?"

She studied his face. "No, darlin'," she said, sounding wistful. She cradled his face in her hand. "I don't want to start over, new city or no. I've done my best to keep my promise to your mama, and I know you'll be all right."

"What promise?"

Mrs. Bell glanced at me, and then told Noel, "When she was dying, she said, 'Love my babies, Leila. Love my babies like I would do.' I did what I could. I did what your father let me do."

Noel nodded, lowering his head, and she reached out to touch his hair. "Love is hard in this family," she said softly. "Go to California as soon as you can, Noel. There's nothing but sorrow for you here."

"As soon as we can," Noel said, raising his head again, and Mrs. Bell gave him a sad smile.

She hesitated, then said, "Something I need to tell you, too. I know you always wondered why I never brought my boy around much. I was... I was always afraid that if you saw him it would only be more obvious that he was your brother."

Noel inhaled sharply and straightened up, and I had to lean against the nearest piece of furniture to keep my balance. "What?" Noel breathed as Mrs. Bell gazed at him calmly. "Mrs. Bell -- Leila -- did he -- does this mean--" his eyes grew wet and his voice shook as he said, "Did my father--"

"No, Noel," Mrs. Bell said. "Good God. No. I was young and foolish, and thought it would help, but it was over as soon as it began. I didn't love your father and he certainly didn't love me, and no amount of patience can help a man determined not to be helped."

Noel clung to her skirt and dropped his face against her knee. She stroked his hair. "Mr. Bell knew," she said. "He married me to protect my reputation. He was a good man. I was very fortunate. But no name on a birth certificate could disguise the fact that Raphael was a Thibodeaux." She traced Noel's cheekbone. "I would have liked more children," she said. "I would have liked grandbabies. But it wasn't meant to be."

"I'm sorry," Noel said into her skirt.

"For what, sugar? The mistakes of my youth? Don't be. I loved Raphael, and I loved my husband, and I grieve for them both like I grieve for your mother and your brother and everyone else we've lost." She said to me, "Loving a Thibodeaux is hard. I hope you're prepared."

"Loving anyone is hard," I said. "I'm as prepared as I can be."

Mrs. Bell smiled to herself again. "Go on, now. It's late."

Noel knelt up and kissed her cheek, and then got to his feet. "Get some sleep," he said, and she waved us off.

"I'll sleep later. Get some sleep yourselves."

We went to Noel's room and started getting ready for bed. As he sat on his bed and pulled off his boots, Noel said abruptly, "I would very much like never to hear another secret in my goddamn life."

I sat beside him and put my arms around him, and he leaned against my side. I kissed his hair. "Every family has secrets."

"Mine seems to have secrets upon secrets. Think I'll ever know the truth about them all?"

"I don't know," I said. "I hope so. It seems to me secrets destroy families more than they help hold them together."

"Though my case, there's just the three of us to hold us together."

"That makes it easier, I suppose." He huffed, and I said, "If it helps any, I've told you everything important about me."

"It does help." He lifted his head, and then placed his hands on either side of my face. "Promise me," he began, but then fell silent.

"Anything," I said.

He shook his head. "Don't promise me anything about this. Just, be who you are, Malcolm."

"Easily done," I said. "You, too, sweetheart. I love who you are."

He lay his head on my shoulder and I held him and kissed his forehead and his hair, and we stayed like that, quiet together, until we were ready to sleep.


	36. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> “I would very much like never to hear another secret in my goddamn life.”

We rested from the world over the weekend, and then on Monday morning Noel returned to work, and took Caleb into the city for his therapy appointment. I spent the morning drawing and writing letters, as usual, and then took the truck into the city to get Caleb.

To my surprise, Noel was in Dr. Dufresne'swaiting room when I arrived. "Is something wrong?"

"Dr. Dufresne asked me to come in today," he said as I sat on the sofa beside him. "You'd already left by the time I called. We could go out to lunch after we're done here."

"I'd like that," I said. There was no one else in the waiting room -- Dr. Dufresne's receptionist was in a receiving room at the front of the office -- and so Noel's hand wrapped around mine until Dr. Dufresne opened her office door.

She came out to talk to us rather than bringing us in, and we could see Caleb kneeling at her little drawing table, coloring in a coloring book. "Mr. Thibodeaux, I was so sorry to hear about your father," she said as she took the armchair at the end of the sofa.

"Thank you," Noel said simply.

"How is Caleb behaving at home?"

"He seems to be doing all right," Noel said. "He played with his friend Samuel on Saturday and Samuel's mother said they got along fine. He's been sleeping the night through and hasn't left the house on his own."

"He indicated Mrs. Bell has been sitting up with him at night," Dr. Dufresne said.

Noel nodded slowly. "She's been very concerned about him. She's been with our family since before my twin and I were born. She's the nearest he's got to a grandmother."

"It's certainly helping, I'd say." We all watched Caleb for a moment, then Dr. Dufresne said, "To be honest, Mr. Thibodeaux, I'm not certain there's much more I can do for Caleb at this point. He's a happy, creative, well-adjusted little boy who chooses not to speak. We e can only wait for him to decide he's ready to speak again. Given his artistic development," she said with a nod to me, "his mind is being nourished, and his imagination is very healthy. I'm happy to continue seeing Caleb if you want him to continue therapy, but any breakthroughs Caleb may have will come from himself."

His expression solemn, Noel reached for my hand again. Dr. Dufresne's gaze landed on our hands, but her only reaction was a minute quirk of her eyebrow. Noel said, "That's fortuitous timing, Dr. Dufresne. My firm wants me to move to California to open a new branch, and we're planning to go by the end of the summer. I was going to ask you for a referral, but if there's nothing a therapist can do for him, then I suppose that's the end of it."

"The change of scenery would be good for him," Dr. Dufresne said, then added gently, "Good for you, too."

Noel smiled a little and said, "I think so, too," and then realized he was holding my hand, and gave me a smile, too, as he let it go.

Dr. Dufresne called, "Caleb, it's time to go now," and Caleb put down his crayons and came running. Noel scooped him up and kissed his hair.

"Hey, peanut. I thought I'd take you and Mr. Malcolm to the park for a little bit before lunch."

Caleb nodded vigorously at that, so we said goodbye to Dr. Dufresne and left her office. I left the truck in the parking garage where I'd left it, and Noel drove us to City Park in the Jaguar.

We walked together for a while, and then Noel gave Caleb leave to run ahead and climb his favorite oak. While he was occupied with this, Noel said, "I suppose today is as good a day as any to tell Caleb about the plans to move."

"We ought to explain a few other things, too," I said, and when Noel looked at me, puzzled, I said, "About you and me."

"Ah," Noel said. "I don't know exactly how to explain it to him in a way he'll understand."

"He's five," I said. "Adults living together and sleeping in the same bed is just a thing they do. He won't think it's different from, say, Julia and Alex, or Angelique and Rene, until he's older -- hopefully much older."

Noel nodded slowly, thoughtful. "All right." He nodded to a nearby bench, so we crossed the grass to wait for Caleb.

"I wrote to my father this morning," I said once we were sitting. "I don't imagine he'll say no, especially if it's only for a few weeks. Duncan is planning to get married in September, so we'll likely be moving in just as he's moving out."

"Has he found a job yet?"

"He has," I said. "There's a job waiting for him to graduate in San Jose, so they'll be moving south. It's not a long drive, though, so we should see them often."

"That's good. I'm looking forward to meeting them both." Noel paused again. "I'm a little nervous about meeting the rest of your family."

I patted his hand. "They'll like you."

"Even if I'm your sweetheart, not just your friend?"

"Even then," I said. "They love me, so they'll like you."

"I hope you're right."

I left my hand resting on his for a moment longer. In my letter to Dad, I hadn't said Noel was my sweetheart in so many words, but I suspected my father would understand. Why else would I be bringing them with me, if not to look after people I loved? But, I supposed, I'd have to be explicit about it if Dad didn't read between the lines.

Caleb came running to us, and proudly held out a beautiful green oak leaf to Noel. "How lovely," Noel said and picked up Caleb to sit on his knee. "Did that fall off the tree?"

Caleb nodded, and spun the leaf by its stem in his fingers as he leaned his head on Noel's chest.

Noel rested his chin on the top of Caleb's head a moment, then said, "Peanut, there's something we need to talk about. Now that Grandfather has passed away, we're going to change ... quite a few things."

Caleb looked up at him with a slight frown, and Noel hugged him. "You're still going to be with me," he said, "and Mr. Malcolm is going to keep teaching you. But my boss, Mr. Adrian, he wants me to open a new office for our company out west. I've agreed to go. This means I'll be away a lot less, but we're also going to move to California."

Caleb frowned deeper.

"I know that's a long way away, and we'll miss everyone we're leaving behind," Noel said. "Mrs. Bell and Willie have decided to stay with their families, and our friends will be staying here, too. But you can write letters to Samuel and Eula and anyone else you want, and we can visit sometimes."

That seemed to placate Caleb a bit, though he was still frowning.

Noel said, "We're going to live with Malcolm's father, Mr. Arthur, until we find a place of our own, and then it'll be the three of us. As a family." He glanced at me, and said, "Mr. Malcolm and I, we went to be a family together."

I said, "That means Noel and I intend to live together and raise you together. What do you think? Are you okay with that?"

Caleb looked up at Noel, and then at me. He gave me the oak leaf.

I murmured, "Thank you, Caleb," and put the leaf away in my sketchbook, and Noel handed me a handkerchief to dry my eyes.

***

Preparations to move to San Francisco began right away. Alex kept the farm running smoothly, the 4/4 Club was doing well under Cozy's management, and when Noel talked to his current tenant about continuing his lease the tenant offered to buy the house; those were all burdens off Noel's mind.

Taking a cue from other former plantation houses in the area, Noel began to search for someone to live at Fidele, give tours of the grounds, and be caretakers of the house. If they wanted to run it as an inn or a wedding venue, or both, he was open to that idea, too. By June he had found the McEwans, transplanted Texans whose children were grown, who were enthused about sharing the plantation's history and living in the house. Once the contracts were signed, they planned to move in at the beginning of September.

Summer passed. The air was sultry, heavy with moisture, the heat fading only slightly when the sun went down, which was almost nine o'clock by midsummer. We allowed Caleb to stay up later; we star-gazed or caught fireflies, and he drew pictures of increasing sophistication to ask the questions he wouldn't ask out loud.

I brought this up to Noel one night as we got ready for bed. "Do you still want me to tutor him once we're in San Francisco?"

"Absolutely," he said. "You don't think he's ready for school, do you?"

"Oh, no," I said, "not until he starts speaking again. Who knows when that will be."

We got into bed and kissed good night, and after we lay in silence for a moment, he said, "And as long as you don't mind me paying you."

I chuckled. "I guess I actually am a kept man."

Noel chuckled too. "I'll keep you in style, sunshine." He moved onto his side and lay his arm over my chest. I kissed his forehead.

"I don't demand much," I said as I stroked his arm. "Just buy me pencils sometimes."

He kissed my neck and settled against me. "So many pencils. Every pencil I can find."

Dad wrote back to me that of course we would live with him, for as long as we needed. One less thing to worry about; it would be much easier to find an apartment or little house once we were actually on the city, and it would be easier on Caleb to be in a house while we searched, instead ofin a hotel.

"I know you've enjoyed New Orleans," Dad wrote, "but I'm selfishly glad to have you back in the city. I've been more and more uneasy about you being in that house. Keep yourself and the Thibodeauxes safe."

I did what I could. Noel was busy but happy; he smiled with more than his eyes, laughed without stifling himself, and slept peacefully at my side. He had to travel frequently, but he was always happy to come home.

One night in July I said, "Caleb should learn to swim before we move. We can go south to Santa Cruz and teach him to swim in the ocean, but he should have some idea of how to do it beforehand."

"Good idea," Noel said, so the next Saturday he was home he took Caleb and I into New Orleans to swim at the YMCA; he showed Caleb how to breathe, and then how to kick, and then how to move his arms, so that by the time we left Caleb could swim across the shallow end and come up beaming with accomplishment.

With help from Willie, Mrs. Bell, and various members of their families we packed up our personal belongings. We would drive cross-country in the truck and ship the Jaguar; Noel gave Willie the Packard, telling him, "Nobody could take better care of it than you," and both of them pretended not to notice how touched Willie was at the gesture.

Most of the house's treasures would stay behind: the piano, the paintings, the books, the furniture. Caleb's toys made up most of the boxes. Noel's belongings from his house, he packed up for the moving company to ship as well. My belongings still fit in my knapsack and trunk, and I packed the sketchbooks first, smiling to myself as I realized I hadn't touched the tale of Sir Errant for weeks. I was busy but happy too.

Yet my father's uneasiness was not unfounded. They were small things, hard to pinpoint or explain to strangers. I lost pencils all the time but when my current sketchbook disappeared I turned all the common rooms upside down trying to find it; days later, Willie's niece found it in a broom closet. Noel lost his watch and thought he'd left in a hotel in Savannah, only for it to reappear on the kitchen table. Car keys went missing from their hooks in the kitchen, then reappeared hours later after we'd turned out all of our pockets in the search.

The house was even more full of whispers, just loud enough to hear the sounds but not loud enough to hear the words. Whenever I sat at a desk or a table, I would grow increasingly uncomfortable, as if someone was glaring at my back, looking for the right place to stab.

At least Caleb seemed unaffected. He played with me and Noel, or Tumnus and Samuel, not invisible playmates. He stayed in his bed every night. He ran up and down the stairs with Tumnus chasing after him, and sometimes laughed out loud.

I checked the flue in his room every night to avoid a repeat of a smokey room; whatever entity started that fire, they decided one night to start one in Emmanuel's room. We only caught it because Mrs. Bell was restless and closing up the house to put herself to sleep, and her shouts woke up the rest of the house.

The fire put out, Noel gave me an exasperated, exhausted look, and said, "I hope we're not leaving the McEwans a disaster."

"I don't think you are," I said. "I think once you and Caleb are out of the house, this will calm down."

"God, I hope you're right," Noel said. I gathered him to me and stroked his hair to put him to sleep.

Myself, I had dreams. They were like films, except I was the camera. I saw a boy vivid blue eyes and curly dark hair, whom I helped to rid of his country accent and dress correctly, so that he could pass himself off as an impoverished nobleman; who worked and saved and only lied a little; and who claimed to love me until the end of time. I saw this boy become a man, who no longer had to pretend to be gentlefolk; who built a house in the bayou and started buying land, so much land, more land than his family had ever dreamed of owning. And I saw this man meet a girl with golden hair who stole his heart and my place in his bed.

Every time I woke from these dreams, I fell from wherever I was standing. Sleepwalking like I had as a kid, like when I'd first arrived at Fidele; only now these intense dreams came with it. Humiliatingly, I had to drag myself back to my room from whatever passage I'd wandered to, and I wondered how the hell my body had managed to walk so far before pain -- or whatever -- finally woke me.

But they were only dreams. It was just sleepwalking. They only happened on nights Noel was away, and since he had so much else to worry about I kept it to myself.

***

Noel's last business trip was in August. His responsibilities had shifted from presenting plans and investigating resources to interviewing new employees, which he did not enjoy as much as making things. But he wanted the best people he could find for the California office, no matter where they were from, and so he spent the last half of the summer going from Massachusetts to Florida to find them.

He was gone for three days this time, his train due after midnight. I took the Jaguar into the city, and sat in the waiting room, sketching, until the train pulled into the station. Noel was one of the few passengers to disembark, and he smiled at me wearily when he saw me waiting on the platform. "Hello," I said and gave his elbow a squeeze. A proper hello could wait. "How was your journey?"

"Bearable," Noel said. He offered me his arm. "It's better to be home."

Once we were in the car, I took his face in my hands and kissed him heartily, while he made happy humming sounds and held me around my waist. "Sleepy?" I said when I finally pulled away, and he nodded, eyelids already drooping.

"I interviewed four potential employees today." He leaned against my side, his head on my shoulder. "It's not my favorite thing, but necessary if we're going to work together. I just wish ... I don't know, that I could know more about a person than an interview can convey. I don't want to hire someone, have them move out west, and then discover that they're terrible people or don't know what they're doing."

"What does your gut tell you?"

"My gut is overly cynical," he said and put his hand on my knee. "But I suppose if I interview twenty people and only hire one, they'll set a high standard for the rest." He rubbed his eyes. "I'll fill this office somehow."

"I wouldn't rush, just to have the desks full," I said. "You haven't even started interviewing people in the area."

"They'll get their turn." He made his head comfortable on my shoulder again. I kissed his hair, and let him doze while we drove back to Fidele.

It was so late when we got home that we simply put on our pajamas, kissed good night, and climbed into bed. Noel fell asleep at once but I lay awake, listening to him breathe, until the sound soothed me to sleep.

I dreamed I was on my knees on the steps of Fidele, pounding o the door with my fists as I screamed Achille's name. He'd had me removed twice before but I refused to surrender. I screamed, "I want my baby back! That bitch can't have him!"

The door opened and I fell across the threshold. I looked up, expecting to see Achille's man who had dragged me away before -- but no, it was Achille himself.

He said, as cold as he had once been warm, "You want to see your son? Come with me." He grabbed my arm and pulled me up the stairs, not to the nursery but to his own room, where there was no cradle. There was--

There was--

The coffin was so tiny.

Grief rent my heart into pieces. I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear to take another breath, except to say, "A curse on you and yours, Achille Thibodeaux," and then I turned, and I ran, and I hurled myself off the landing --

I woke as I crumpled to the floor. I lay there, panting, my leg and hip aching, the wood floor under my palms, as I reminded myself I was Malcolm Carmichael and it was 1952 and it was just a dream, just a dream.

A light flickered on behind me, and Noel said, "Malcolm, what the hell?" as he came out of the bedroom, belting a robe around his waist. "Where's your cane?"

"I'm not sure," I said and started to roll onto my back, but Noel stopped me.

"Don't move yet. Let me look you over. Did you hit your nose? Do your teeth feel okay?"

I ran my tongue over my teeth. "They're fine. Noel, I'm fine," I said as he ran his hands gently over my neck and shoulders. "Just help me up, please."

"You fell," Noel said, but helped me to my feet and hung my arm over his shoulders. "Why were you walking in the first place?"

I sighed, and got into bed before I answered. The light was still on, and I almost reached to turn it off so I wouldn't have to look at Noel's face. "I was sleepwalking. I've been sleepwalking all summer. This is the first time it's happened when you were here."

Noel narrowed his eyes at me. "I asked for no more secrets."

"I know," I said, "I know, but I didn't want you to worry."

"I'm going to worry," he snapped. "Okay? I'm going to worry. At least if I know something's wrong I have something solid to worry about and not the formless worry about everything I've usually got."

"Come here, sweetheart," I said, holding out an arm for him, but he didn't move closer, not ready to be comforted yet.

"What else have you not been telling me?"

"Nothing," I said. "I didn't think this was important enough to bother you with."

"If something is forcing you out of bed and making you hurt yourself, it's important."

I exhaled, tired and aching and not wanting to deal with this right now, but I said, "I've been having dreams about Justine and Achille. I had one tonight. I think when I dream about Justine, I sleepwalk."

"Dreams," Noel said. "What sort of dreams?"

"Their story, Justine and Achille's. She loved him, really loved him, and he gave her up like she was nothing."

A beat passed, and then Noel rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "You're an idiot," he muttered and curled up at my side, his head on my chest.

I put my arms around him. "I know."

"Don't hide things from me, Malcolm, no matter how small they might seem. I need to know what's going on in this house."

I stroked his hair. "Justine is the one who jumped from the landing. She saw the coffin of her child, of Michel, and killed herself out of grief."

"The dreams told you this?"

"Yes, and more things about them, too."

Noel murmured, "You've always said grief is a strange thing."

"I truly believe it is. It makes you angry, it makes you sad, it makes you lash out, it makes you destroy yourself and everything around you... and it could make you curse your faithless lover and all his progeny, and haunt them until the end of time."

Noel raised his head and studied my face, and then kissed me and got out of bed to turn off the light. He held me tight, his head on my shoulder, and I stroked his hair.

"I hope you're right," he whispered, "that once we leave this place, the ghost will leave us alone."

"We'll line the house with salt if I'm wrong."

In response, Noel sat up and started to remove the silver dime from around his neck, but I put my hand on top of his. "No, honey. Keep it. You're in more danger than me."

"I'm not the one she's giving dreams and making sleepwalk."

"They're just dreams," I said, "and she doesn't want to hurt me. I'm not a Thibodeaux."

Noel studied me again, and then lay down. "Okay," he said. "I hope you're right."

"I'm right," I said. I kissed his hair. "I know I'm right."

I meant only to reassure him, but there was some pride in that statement. Some hubris. Some belief that I could solve every problem Noel Thibodeaux had.


	37. Achille

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> "They're just dreams," I said, "and she doesn't want to hurt me. I'm not a Thibodeaux."

Caleb's sixth birthday, August eighteenth, dawned cool and wet. I came to the nursery to find him at the window, tracing the raindrops as they cascaded down the glass.

Despite the weather and so most of our things packed up for the move, we planned to give Caleb a good day. Noel took the day off work to spend the day with him, and there were half-a-dozen gifts waiting for Caleb to unwrap just from him. Samuel Christie was invited over to play; we had already decided Caleb would not have lessons that day, so Noel and I spent the morning looking after him and Samuel. For lunch, we ate Caleb's menu of chicken noodle soup, corn bread, and watermelon, with chocolate cake decorated with six candles for dessert. In the afternoon, the boys napped in Caleb's room and we let Caleb open his presents afterward.

Just before sunset Alex Christie came to fetch Samuel. The boys hugged each other and Caleb kissed Samuel's cheek. Alex looked away at that, smothering a smile, and said to us, "I'm glad they had this chance to say goodbye. Don't be strangers, Noel."

"We'll come back next summer," Noel said. "And we'll be sure Caleb writes to Samuel." They shook hands, and then hugged each other too, and Noel said quietly to give his love to Julia and Jane. Samuel waved to Caleb as Alex drove away.

It was a lovely day, sweet and peaceful. Ordinary, in its way.

When Noel put Caleb to bed, he said, "Did you have a happy birthday, peanut?" and Caleb nodded with an enormous yawn. Noel chuckled and kissed his forehead. "Good night, sweet boy," he said gently, and sat with him until Caleb was asleep.

In the hall, Noel slumped into my arms and I kissed his hair. "Last year he didn't stop crying all day."

"It was his first birthday without his parents," I said. "I'm not surprised he was sad. But you gave him a very good day today."

Noel lifted his head with a soft, "Kiss me," so I kissed him with a smile. "Come to bed?"

"I want to read a little before I sleep." I brushed my hand over the side of his face. "Go to bed if you're tired. I'll be along later."

He hummed, nodded, and tucked his head against my neck for a moment before he pulled away. "Love you," he said as our fingers parted.

"Love you," I answered.

The summer rains continued to fall, and the wind moaned around the house. Willie had lit a fire in the fireplace in the library, and I took the ledger there to read in the warmth. The armchairs and study table were covered to protect them from sun and dust between when we moved out and the new renters moved in.

I removed a cover from one of the armchairs near the fireplace, and picked up the old leather-bound ledger. All summer I had been rereading it; I was still convinced I could find what I was looking for here, something I could point to and tell Noel, "This is why the family has suffered. This is why everything is wrong."

I had read the ledger cover to cover more than once, and each time failed to find my solution. Achille's record stopped with the entry recording Charlotte's death. Whomever had kept Fidele's records after her death, likely the plantation overseer, must have used a different book.

I rubbed my eyes. Eighteenth-century handwriting as hard enough -- eighteenth-century handwriting in eighteenth-century French was enough to make my head ache, at least at this time of night.

When I opened the book again I thumbed past the blank pages to the end of the ledger, and realized that I had bypassed these pages every time I read the ledger since there was no entry to read and no loose sheet of paper shoved in for safekeeping. Everything else, I knew, had been in Grace's possession and lost in the fire; I kept hoping to find something she missed, and was always disappointed. She had been thorough, normally a boon to a researcher, but an enormous loss now.

So I had missed the small, single entry on the final page facing the end papers, written as if to be found only by the most diligent: _"Portrait of a Creole Woman," reframed._

The penny dropped. _Portrait of a Creole Woman_ \-- it was the portrait rumored to be of Achille's mistress, hung in one of the lesser-used passages upstairs, the painting that had frightened the boys when they believed they saw it move.

I put the ledger on one of the shelves, and went upstairs to where the portrait hung. As ever, the gaze of the woman met mine levelly, her eyes dark and lively, her face and form beautiful by any standard.

I took the portrait down from the wall and turned it around. The frame was backed with a paper dust cover. I took a pencil from my pocket and poked it carefully through the paper, and then tore the paper open to reveal the back of the canvas.

Tucked inside was an envelope, brown with age, with "To my progeny" written in black ink and familiar handwriting.

I leaned the portrait against the wall and took the envelope to my room to read.

***

_"I am Achille Thibodeaux, your grandfather or further; I cannot guess what year it is that you read this missive. Today is my son's twentieth birthday, and it is time I tell the truth. May God forgive me for what I have done and the loved ones whose trust I have betrayed._

_"I was born into a humble family in Calais, France, in 1711. I could not tell you the exact date, though I know it was sometime around Christmas Day as I was baptized shortly after. Due to a misunderstanding between myself and local authorities, I left home at sixteen and sought a new beginning, first in the colony of Haiti, then in Louisiana. I changed my name from the common one given me by my parents to the more noble-sounding Achille Thibodeaux, and told people I was an impoverished cousin of a local lord. Because of this falsehood, themerchants and gentry were more willing to assist me than they would have been had they known the truth. In four years' time I had amassed a tidy sum from loans, wages, gifts, and investments, enough to buy a small plot of land to call my own. I named the place Fidele, for the faith that had carried me from my home to the colony and the steadfastness that had enabled me to own the land._

_"Part of the reason why I was able to gather such a sum was due to my mistress, a woman from Haiti named Justine Dubois. Like me, she was determined to be more than what she had been born to be. Like me, she hid her true origins. Her father had been a French sailor, she told me; her mother a slave stolen from Africa._

_"Justine taught me to talk to the respectable businessmen so that they would think I was nobility and treat me accordingly. She taught me to listen and learn from the sea captains and the merchants. She connected me to farmers who taught me the best ways to plant and raise sugar cane. Justine was my strongest advocate and biggest champion, and together we were unstoppable._

_"Under French law, I was not allowed to marry her. I kept her as my mistress through the years instead, and even built her a little cottage of her own among the sugar cane fields, where she held salons and was a celebrated hostess, accepted in the liberal Creole society._

_"It was during this time that I commissioned the portrait of Justine to be painted. It was, to my mind, a celebration of her beauty as well as a token of my love, and I hung it proudly in my own home._

_"All was well between us until I met the woman who would become my wife, the daughter of a French merchant named Charlotte Darbonne. I loved her at once; I courted her, and we were married on December 30, 1739, and she was with child before Lent._

_"For months before the wedding I attempted to break things off with Justine, though I promised her I would continue to pay her expenses until she married as well; she vowed she would never love another and would never marry another man. Again and again she convinced me to keep her a little while longer, or else she would do something drastic in retaliation._

_"Not long after Charlotte told me I was to be a father, Justine told me the same news, that she would soon bear my child. I was displeased, for the last time we had been together was before my marriage. I told her she could stay in the cottage until the child's birth but no longer, for I would not support the child of another man. She wept, swore on my life and hers that the child was mine, and entreated me on her knees not to abandon her. In my anger, I did not believe her, and left the house vowing never to return for as long as she lived there._

_"As fate would have it, both she and Charlotte gave birth the same night -- Charlotte a month early, and while the doctor did his best to save our child, he lived only long enough to be baptized and given the name Michel. Charlotte was half-dead and I was half-mad with grief; when one of Justine's servants came to tell me her son had been born, I went to the cottage to see for myself, with what I must admit a wicked intention in my heart._

_"I knew from the moment I laid eyes on the child that he was mine. As the sugar cane fields burned, I walked out of that house with the baby in my arms and laid him in the cradle where his half-brother had lived his short life. Once she was sensible again, I told Charlotte her son had lived, look how handsome and strong he was, and she had no cause to doubt me._

_"We christened him Maxim. I buried Michel in the tomb intended for Charlotte and me, and threatened both my doctor and the two servants who knew the truth with ruin should they ever reveal who lay in the tomb and whose child played in our nursery. Maxim's complexion was fair enough that I did not need to make excuses for him, and he clearly had my eyes and my visage -- a distinctive shape that my father and distantly-remembered grandfather also carried._

_"At first Charlotte loved him, and why would she not? As far as they both knew, they were mother and child._

_"Two times bewtween Maxim's birth and Michel's burial, Justine came to the house and begged to see me. Each time I refused her, and instructed my butler to deny her entrance. She was not to cross the threshold. She was not to speak to Charlotte nor lay eyes on Maxim._

_"The third time, I was the one to open the door. I take no pride in what I did then. I see now that I was still angry with myself for succumbing again and again to her charms; at the time I thought it was proper punishment for her disobeying my orders. I took her to my study where the body of Michel waited in its little coffin for the tomb to be complete, and told her the dead child was hers._

_"In her grief, Justine hurled herself from a high landing, and she was taken up dead._

_"I had her buried hastily and in secret, in the land set aside to bury my slaves._

_"It was known to me that before we met, while we lived in Haiti, and during her life at Fidele, slaves and even Creoles had gone to her to cure their illnesses and to cast spells. How she possessed this knowledge I never asked, though I believe she learned many folkways from her mother and possessed powers she could not reveal to me. Once she was dead and buried, the slaves planted a myrtle tree over her grave, believing this would protect them. From what, I did not need to ask._

_"It may have protected them from Justine's wrath, but my own house never knew a moment's peace. Empty rooms were full of whispers. Jewels, pens, ink pots, house keys, went missing only to be found in the most absurd of places. Always, I felt a gaze on my back, malevolent and full of hatred, as the unhappy spirit bided its time to destroy me._

_"As Maxim grew Charlotte asked more and more questions. Why did he resemble me so strongly but her not at all? Where were her markers on his body? He was a sweet and clever boy, but that was not enough for her. She quizzed me regarding the night of his birth -- what could I remember? What could I tell her about those hours she was in a stupor? Why had a priest been summoned?_

_"I had answers for all her questions, some true, some not, and when I grew tired of her doubts I scolded her enough to make her weep and declare me cruel. She pushed Maxim from her arms when the nurse brought him to her, and declared she no longer wished to lay eyes on him. She took to her bed for days, refusing to stir even when I ordered her to, and finally I summoned a doctor to cure her ailment._

_"Her sickness, he told me, was not of the body but of the mind; she was convinced she was raising a stranger's child, that Maxim was a changeling or worse. She demanded to see her own baby, and didn't believe him when he said Maxim was her child._

_"The the haunting, for there is no other word for it, began to turn malevolent. Maxim woke in the night with bruises forming as if someone had pinched him. Charlotte complained of nightmares, of someone pushing her off the bed, of her clothes rent in the wardrobe. Small fires were set in empty rooms, so often that my butler took to investigating every room for fire every night.A horse in his stall reared so violently he broke his leg and I had to put him down._

_"I have no doubt that it was these occurrences that contributed to Charlotte's madness; that they increased any suspicions she already bore and made them worse, made them eat away at her until her mind was broken._

_"One night shortly before Maxim's first birthday, I heard a noise in the nursery; on investigation, I found Charlotte standing over Maxim's crib with a pillow over his face. I hurled the pillow away and snatched up the child, who began to breathe again at once. I saw then that I had no choice; Charlotte was a danger to my son, perhaps even to herself._

_"I sent her to a sanitarium in the English colonies. There was nothing else to be done._

_"She had been in the sanitarium for a year when I received word that she had taken her own life. Her body was returned to me. The circumstances of her death, of course, I kept to myself so that she could be buried in the family crypt, on blessed ground, and once this was accomplished I took Maxim and returned to France, praying that across the ocean he would be safe from the vengeance of his mother._

_"Justine had defeated me, and so I ran._

_"I have returned to Fidele now that Maxim is soon to be of age, and he deserves to know the legacy I will leave him at my death. I have no doubt this day will be soon, as I can already hear the whispers and feel a gaze filled with loathing on my back. Justine is still here, and she will not be kept waiting._

_"I write this confession in the hopes that future generations will understand and forgive me. I have never told the entirety of this story to another living soul. Maxim is my son and heir, no matter the other half of his parentage, and I will not allow society to deny him the rights I have bestowed upon him. Fidele and all its lands and properties, belongs to Maxim Christophe Thibodeaux until the day of his death, and to his chosen heir after._

_"Again I pray God's forgiveness for all that I have done, and may He receive me into the life to come at the moment of my death._

_"May Justine forgive me, too, though I know in my heart she is beyond forgiveness and remembers only how she has been transgressed. For that, I do not blame her. No one is to blame but myself._

_"Achille Thibodeaux,_

_"August 18, 1760."_

***

I straightened the pages, carefully refolded them, and put them back in their envelope. Noel would have to read this, though I had no idea how he would react to it.

I wasn't sure what I felt about it, either. My mental image of Achille was already not terribly favorable; this, no matter what his intentions or how often he asked for forgiveness, did not improve it. One selfish, vindictive gesture and he had condemned his family to unhappiness and sorrow for two hundred years.

 _Poor Justine,_ I thought, surprising myself -- but I felt for her. Betrayed, abandoned, lied to -- she had done what a mother would do, as Achille had said. She had sought her vengeance.

As I gathered the pages, I exhaled, and my breath froze in a plume -- despite the fire crackling in the fireplace, my bedroom was cold enough to raise goose pimples on my skin. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.

I looked up, not sure who to expect -- I always hoped it would be Zachary, though it had been months since he last appeared to me -- and in front of me was a form that quickly took shape, slight, female, hair gathered in a turban and skirts that swept the floor. In a moment she was as clear as the portrait, beautiful and fierce, a being of wrath.

 _Mine,_ filled my mind like a roar.


	38. Justine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> "Justine had defeated me, and so I ran."

I'd had dreams like this. My body but _not_ my body, watching me go about my business through someone else's eyes.

This time, it was my body that rose from the sofa and walked down the passage; but my body walked with my cane forgotten in my hand, without shuffling, the pain of every step ignored like an inconvenient itch. A consciousness I recognized as separate from my own resided in my mind, strong enough to suppress the me which pounded against the restraint like fists against a locked door.

_Justine, stop! Let me go!_

I whispered out loud, my words unfamiliar in this new language, "No, cher. Not until the deed is done."

We went to Noel's bedroom. The light was off, and he lay in bed, asleep, his arm flung out as if waiting for me to lie at his side.We went to his bedside, and my hand lay on his chest. He was so warm. His heart beat so steadily. Even after all the generations between them, Justine could see the traces of Achille in Noel's face.

"For that alone," I whispered, "he deserves to die."

I screamed, _No! No! Don't touch him!_ as my hands slid around his throat.

I heard myself chuckle. "All right, cher. He's not the one I want, anyway." My hands left Noel's neck; my cane forgotten by the bed, we crossed the house to Caleb's room.

_Oh, God, Justine, no, not Caleb, you can't have him, he's not yours._

"He is mine, cher. I'll keep him with me and we'll play together forever and ever..."

My hand opened the door. Mrs. Bell had gone to bed; Caleb's fairy light was doused, but my eyes could see him in bed by the flashes of lightning, his Teddy keeping watch by his pillow and Tumnus asleep in the curve of his body. Tumnus stirred as my body approached, and then her eyes grew enormous and her tail bristled, and she crouched, her claws out. A deep rumble ran through her small body.

"Go on, cat," my voice said.

Tumnus sprang from the bed as my body bent over Caleb, and she scratched my face a few times before my hands grabbed her and tossed her away. She scrambled out of the room with a howl.

In the commotion, Caleb woke, and he stared at me over the edge of his blanket, wide-eyed. "It's all right," my voice said as my hands tugged the coverlet back. "It's all right, cheri. It's time for us to go, you and I."

He shook his head.

"Don't you recognize me, Caleb? It's me. It's Justine. I'm borrowing Mr. Malcolm, just for a little while. We'll do what I promised. We'll play forever and ever, you and I, and you'll never grow old and never lose anyone you love ever again. All you need to do is come with me."

My arms tried to take him up, but some force -- something I couldn't see but that held me back as strongly as if my arms were bound, the same force that had kept me out of his room for weeks -- prevented my arms from holding him as he inched away from me. "Caleb," my voice said, and he rolled off the other side of the bed and darted out of the room.

"Little brat!" my voice shouted as my body lunged after him, but he was too fast and this body was too clumsy. The weak leg gave out, sending me sprawling to the floor.

My voice screamed in rage. In my mind, I pushed against Justine, but I didn't have the weapons to fight her -- she was too old, too strong, she had been preparing for this day for two hundred years, and my own near-death had made me an open door --

A being appeared in front of me. Bare feet, small, with toenails painted pale pink; legs and body clad in pale blue flannel pajamas printed with ducklings; a face that was sweet and gentle, with dark hair bound in a single braid that fell over her shoulder. She looked at me with a sad, understanding smile.

The vision of her was so ordinary that I almost rubbed my eyes in disbelief -- but of course she looked ordinary, she had died on a regular Sunday night. She had put her son to bed and kissed him good night, and expected to do nothing more than kiss her husband good night too before going to sleep herself.

I whispered, "Grace," as the sweet, everyday images of her life filled my head and I stared at her in wonder.

Oh, their life had been lovely. Simon and his friends filled their house with music. Caleb was a happy child, brimming with laughter and curiosity. She had friends throughout the city, she loved her brother-in-law, she and Simon were as affectionate and passionate as they had been the day they were married. She had been happy. Their house had been a place of joy.

The only shadow on their marriage was the occasional visit to Emmanuel, and those they kept as short as possible. Grace felt the same fierce protectiveness toward Noel that Simon did. They agreed early on that they would never leave Noel alone with Emmanuel, and they would never stay at Fidele overnight.

But then there had been a storm, and Emmanuel had insisted they stay, rather than drive back to New Orleans in near-hurricane conditions. Grace had woken in the night with the creepy feeling that someone had bent over her and watched her sleep.

The next night, they were dead.

That was how much Justine hated them and their happiness. They had eluded her for as long as they could, but once she saw them, she did all she could to destroy them.

Grace's lips moved, and I heard her words like a memory rather than as if she had spoken out loud. _Save my son._

_I can't. She's too strong._

"You can, lazy ass," Zachary said.

I opened my eyes. Grace had been joined by Simon and Zachary -- Zachary in his uniform, the Red Cross band on his arm; Simon in the red sweater and khaki pants he'd been wearing the night of the fire -- and they all looked down at me. Zachary wore his familiar affectionate, exasperated smile. Grace and Simon looked understandably worried.

Zachary got onto one knee beside me. "Get up, soldier. You're not done yet."

"Up," I said and pushed my hands against the floor to get myself onto my knees. In my mind, Justine roared and forced my back down, hard enough to smack my head against the floor. My head spun, but I said again, "Up!" and got to my hands and knees again.

Justine shoved my body into my side. I gasped, "Zachary, help me," and he stood over me, his goodness shining in the dark room like an angel in Hell. He cradled my head in his hand.

"Fight, soldier!"

I fought. I don't know how, but I fought. I fought like I had on the beach of Normandy, but without a gun or grenades -- only my will to live, only my desire to protect the people I loved.

Justine screamed and fought back. She was old, so old, and strong, so strong, and she had rage and grief to power her. But she was alone.

I wasn't.

I felt her leave me like a fever breaking. I gasped for breath and sat up, and blinked a few times to clear my vision and settle my aching head. "I can't walk."

"Crawl," Zachary said.

"We're with you," said Simon.

I got onto my hands and knees and crawled to the school room, the only other place I could think of where Caleb might try to hide. As I crawled, I heard the unmistakable sound of fire crackling from below -- the fire in the library fireplace was spreading, no doubt helped by Justine. The firelight in my room was also growing brighter, and I was certain every fire in the house, possibly even the gas in the kitchen, was being pushed along to bring down this house and everyone in it.

The schoolroom door was closed. I grasped the doorknob to haul myself up and let myself in, and hissed as the hot metal burned my hands.

"Caleb," I said as soon as I was in the school room. "Caleb, it's Malcolm. I'm me again. I'm sorry I scared you. Something -- someone -- tried to trick you but she's gone now."

The lid to the toy box lifted a tiny bit, and then fell again. I used the desk to pull myself to my feet, and made my way along the built-ins to the toy box. "Caleb, the house is on fire. We have to leave, now. We have to _leave_."

I tried to pull the lid open and he pulled it back. I heard him crying, and it broke my heart even as my voice grew stern. "We have to go now, Caleb! I'm not going to let you die!" I yanked the toy box lid up -- I have no doubt I had some help, even against a terrified six-year-old -- and scooped Caleb up out of the box.

Caleb fought me as I held him to my chest and leaned against the built-ins to catch my breath. I held his head in one hand and said, "Sh, peanut, stop, it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," and at 'peanut' he stopped, and blinked at me, uncertain, scared, hopeful. I kissed his cheek. "It's me, little man. Come on."

I started to carry him out of the school room, the built-ins holding me up, when he twisted back and held out his hand. "My kitty!"

"Oh, God," I muttered and put him down on the floor. "Stay right there, okay, Caleb, please? Don't move." Of course he ran out of the school room, and I shouted, "Caleb! God damn it--" and went to find Tumnus, who had hidden herself in the corner of the toy box. I unbuttoned my shirt and put her inside, wincing as her claws dug into my chest. "I need a hand free, cat," I said as I made my way out of the schoolroom. "Try not to claw me to death."

By now, the air was thick with smoke. The floor felt hot beneath my feet, and the floorboards groaned. My eyes stung and my lungs burned as I pulled myself along the wall down the passage to Mrs. Bell's room. I didn't bother to knock -- just yanked the door open and shouted, "Fire! Up!"

Mrs. Bell bolted upright and gaped at me, but then grabbed her wrapper and belted it around her waist. "Where's Caleb?"

"He keeps running away from me." Tumnus meowed pitifully, her claws digging into my chest. I patted her through my shirt. "Could you--?"

She took the cat out of my shirt and put her inside her robe, and put my arm over her shoulders to support me. I could have kissed her. We made our way back down the passage, shouting, "Caleb! Caleb!" and checked his room once more to make sure he wasn't hiding under the bed.

The grandfather clock struck three, its tones discordant as its casing went up in flames.

Mrs. Bell called, "Caleb, don't hide! Come on out, sugar!"

On the landing, I saw Noel opposite us in his bathrobe, frantic. "Malcolm! Where's Caleb?"

"We'll find him," I shouted back.

Flames licked up the walls. I could see the paint in the paintings bubble and melt. Window glass cracked from the heat. The floorboards and carpets, the curtains, every chair and side table -- everything in the hall was on fire. I had no doubt the other main rooms in the house were equally ablaze, given the thick acrid smoke that hung in the air.

I pushed Mrs. Bell toward the stairs. "Get Willie out."

"But--"

"Go on! I'll find Caleb!"

She looked at me a moment more, then grabbed my face and kissed my mouth, hard. She ran down the stairs, toward the kitchen and Willie's room. Tumnus howled the entire way.

"Oh, God," Noel said, and then shouted, "Caleb! Crawl on the floor, Caleb!" as he ran around the landing to the west wing. "What the hell happened, Malcolm?" His face was white and his hands were shaking as he grabbed me by the shoulders. "Where's Caleb?"

"He ran away from me. He's not in the nursery or the schoolroom."

"Why did he run away?" He shook me. "Why did he run away from you, Malcolm?"

I started to answer, when a beam fell from the ceiling onto the landing behind Noel. We both ducked -- curtains like columns of fire, furniture cracking and melting, the air full of cinders -- and I said, "Justine, it was Justine, I can't explain. We have to find Caleb."

"Downstairs, if he's not up here," Noel said and put my arm over his shoulders. We made our way downstairs, Noel covering my head when cinders and debris fell from above, and were met by Willie and Mrs. Bell below.

"Caleb isn't down here," Mrs. Bell said, tears running down her face. "I can't find Caleb anywhere."

Somehow, above all of the fire and shouting, we heard the tiny, "Uncle Noel?"

We all looked up. On the landing above us stood Caleb, his face smeared with soot and streaked with tears.

Behind him, her arms crossed over his chest, was Justine.

"Dear God," muttered Willie.

Noel called, "Don't be scared, peanut. Don't be afraid."

_He's mine!_ Justine said in a voice that probably once been sweet but was now hoarse, as if she had been screaming for the last two hundred years. _I'm taking him with me!_

"No!" shouted Noel from below and started up the stairs.

Justine roared and a curtain of flame flared up on the stairs in front of Noel. Noel flinched before he took a determined step forward. I put my arm in front of him so he wouldn't go charging through the fire, and he glared at me but didn't try to push through.

"You hate us," he growled at Justine, "fine. I don't blame you. Achille wronged you from beginning to end."

Flames burned in her eyes. Flames jumped all around us. The noise was deafening, the heat was unbearable.

"Justine!" I shouted and her head turned to me. "Justine, you have every right to hate Achille's descendants. I don't blame you. But you need to know this -- Michel, the baby who died, he wasn't your son. Maxim was. Maxim lived. Maxim was your son."

For a moment, it seemed as if the noise retreated and the heat was not so relentless. They all stared at me.

"Achille wrote it all down," I said. "He told the whole story. Michel, his son with Charlotte, died minutes after he was born. Achille took Maxim from you and told Charlotte he was her child. All of the Thibodeaux family, they're descended from Maxim -- from you. They're your family, Justine. They're all yours."

The fire roared all around us, and then a scream rent the air so loud and full of grief that we all cringed. Mrs. Bell hid her face in Willie's chest.

Noel said, his voice soft, "I'm sorry, Justine. I am. I'm sorry for everything Achille did to you."

She hesitated. Caleb whimpered, "Uncle Noel, I'm scared."

"It's okay, peanut," Noel said to Caleb, and to Justine, "Please, let me have Caleb. Let your line live on a little longer. Please."

She stared at Noel, and her grip on Caleb loosened. As it did, three spirits appeared around Justine. For a moment I thought there would be a fight -- but instead, Grace placed her hand on Justin'e face. The two women looked at each other, Grace's face full of empathy. Justine closed her eyes, and Grace wrapped her arms around her. Simon did the same, and Zachary, too, and at the next flash of lightning they disappeared in a whirlwind and a scattering of ash.

The house still burned, the flames climbing the walls ever higher. Another beam dropped and we all ducked.

"Get out," Noel ordered Willie. "Get Mrs. Bell out."

"But Mr. Noel--"

"Do it!"

Willie took one more look at us, and then he and Mrs. Bell ran out of the house.

"Caleb," I said as I tested the staircase. "Drop to your knees, Caleb, we'll find a way out--"

"Caleb," Noel said from below the landing. "Caleb, listen to me. Do you trust me?"

Caleb nodded, looking terrified and brave at once. "Yes, Uncle Noel."

"I need you to jump, peanut, okay? Squeeze through the railings like you did before, do you remember? Squeeze through and then jump, and I'll catch you. Okay? Will you do that, peanut? Jump into my arms. I'll catch you."

"Okay." His voice was still tiny and frightened, but he was brave -- he slipped through the rails of the banister, and then he jumped.

Noel caught him. They both fell, Noel twisting so that he took the brunt of it. I staggered to them, and Noel got to his feet, Caleb in his arms. I was wheezing, my lungs aching -- he grabbed my arm and we fled the house as the ceiling collapsed behind us.

***

At the bottom of the steps, I tumbled face-first onto the grass. Noel grabbed me around the chest and pulled me further away, and we all huddled close together on the lawn as more sections of the house collapsed.

"Are you okay?" I hear Noel ask Willie.

"Fair enough, Mr. Noel."

"Leila?"

"I'll be all right."

"I want my kitty," Caleb said in a tiny voice, and Mrs. Bell answered, "Here you go, sugar."

"Will you take Caleb a moment?" Noel said, and there was rustling as he handed Caleb over to Mrs. Bell. Noel bent over me, and pushed my hair back from my forehead. "You still with us, Malcolm?"

"For now," I said and rolled over onto my back to breathe in the cold, wet air and get the smoke out of my lungs.

Caleb said, "Uncle Noel?"

"Yes, peanut?" Noel said.

"It's raining," Caleb said, and Noel began to laugh and weep at once, and he kissed Caleb over and over.

"I know. We'll get out of the rain soon."

Headlights swept up the avenue and the car skidded to a stop. Alex Christie got out and started to run up the front steps, and Noel shouted, "Alex!" before he stepped into the inferno. "Alex, we're over here!"

Alex came to us, his face white, and dropped to his knees. "Oh, my god," he said, "Julia was up with Janie and saw the light and we thought -- I called the fire department--" He burst into sobs.

Over the roar of the fire I could hear the faint sound of sirens. Noel stroked my hair and I closed my eyes, and he whispered, "Just breathe, sunshine. Just breathe."


	39. Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
>
>> "Just breathe, sunshine. Just breathe."

What happened after that, I remember only in bits and pieces. Firetrucks arrived, and an ambulance. The firefighters had us all breathe with oxygen masks to combat smoke inhalation. Between the smoke, the crawling, and walking without my cane, I couldn't support my own weight, and they put me on a stretcher and into the ambulance.

I slept. I woke hours later, an oxygen mask still on my face and bandages on my hands, to see Noel asleep in the chair beside my bed. His hand lay on the sheet beside mine. I moved mine enough to touch fingers, and fell asleep again.

When I woke again, the light from the windows said it was mid-afternoon. Noel had changed clothes and shaved, and sat in the chair reading a book. He closed it when I stirred, and put his hand lightly on mine again. "Malcolm," he said. "Don't try to speak. They want you just to breathe for now."

I closed my eyes, then opened them again.

"Caleb says," he paused to smile, "Caleb says Justine 'borrowed' you for a bit. He says Justine promised him they'd play together forever and ever if he'd go with her. I suspect this means she intended to kill him," he paused, pressing his lips together, "and bind his spirit to Fidele somehow.

"I feel like I should be furious with you."

I moved my hand from under his.

Noel took it back. "The thing is, I'm not. I mean, I know it wasn't you. Not really. Whatever she made you do, I know it wasn't you."

My eyes stung and I had to look away.

Noel kissed the back of my hand, and laid it gently on the coverlet. "Get some sleep. We'll talk more later." He stood and made to go, and then stopped and bent over me to kiss my forehead.

I closed my eyes as a feeling I suspect was grace washed through me.

*** 

By the next morning, my doctor decided I could do without the oxygen mask, but I was still being treated for burns on my hands and face. I was to rest my voice, and in a few days they'd let me try to walk again.

The bandages on my hands made me clumsy as I tried to feed myself for the first time, but the soup I was given was so bland it hardly seemed worth the effort.

Noel poked his head through the curtains that separated me from the other patients in the ward. "Do you mind a visitor?"

"Never," I whispered, not able to speak above that volume. He took the chair beside my bed again.

"How's your lunch?"

I handed him the spoon. He took a sip, then made a face. "Ugh. Why didn't you say it was terrible?"

I whispered, "I'm not supposed to talk."

"Asshole," Noel said and lay the spoon on my tray-table. I smiled, not denying it, and then raised my hand and pressed it to his cheek. Noel closed his eyes and tilted his face into my touch.

I said, "I've had a lot of time to think."

"Malcolm, don't, not now."

"Now," I said. It hurt to speak -- in my throat, in my heart -- but I went on anyway. "You should take the position in Seattle, or Los Angeles. Forget about me."

"No," Noel said.

"Yes," I said. "I'm a danger to you and to Caleb. These hands were around your throat. She almost made me kill you."

"But you didn't. You fought her, and you drove her out."

"I had help."

"If you need it, I think you'll have help again. But I don't think you'll need it. I think they left and I think they took Justine with them, to ... wherever it is she needed to go." He kissed the back of my hand again.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, and I don't know if it was the painkillers in my system or exhaustion or just more love than I deserved, but I began to weep. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He sat on the edge of the bed and held me, and whispered, "Sh, sunshine. Sh. It's behind us now."

"All those paintings. All those first editions. Your family's entire history. Gone, just gone."

Noel stroked the back of my neck. "Good riddance to it," he said quietly. "They were just things. I've got you, I've got Caleb. The important things are safe." Then he looked at me, stricken. "But all of your sketchbooks, your art--"

"None of it matters," I said. "Not as much as you."

The curtains around my bed were closed, and the noise of the ward seemed far away. Noel kissed me, carefully holding my face to avoid the burns, and I kissed him back with everything I had.

***

When I proved I would walk and breathe on my own a few days later, I was released from the hospital. Noel and Caleb had been staying with the Christies, and so Noel brought me there for the few days between my release and our planned departure.

The house had been insured against fire, which was one piece of good news. The investigator, Noel told me, blamed the fire on a faulty gas line in the updated kitchen. The plan was to completely demolish what remained to prevent squatters and looters, though Noel said there was nothing to loot.

"The McEwans are devastated," Noel told me as we lay on the Christie's guest bed -- I was still under orders to rest frequently -- after supper. "They even offered to live on the property to keep an eye on things while we rebuild, if we want to rebuild, but I don't see the point of rebuilding. The draw of the place was that it was an antebellum mansion."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Let it smolder, I suppose. Give Alex leave to plow under the gardens and plant more sugar cane." He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. "Honestly, no one should live there. It was never a happy place."

I took his hand. "We'll find a place to be happy."

He turned onto his side and lay his head on my chest. "Promise?"

"Promise."

In the end, our worldly possessions with us fit into the back of the pickup truck. Noel decided to sell the Jaguar rather than drive it cross-country, and so it was with a much lighter load than planned that we got into the truck on the last Saturday morning in August, said goodbye to our friends one more time, and headed west.

For all my brave words to Noel, I was nervous about going back. It was home, and home should always welcome you, but I wondered if I would find the familiar streets and houses as haunted as I had before.

When we reached San Francisco, I directed Noel through the city to my father's house. We parked on the sloping street and got out of the truck, Caleb whining a little with weariness, and the door to the house opened.

My father came down the stairs, grayer than he had been the last time I had seen him, a little more stooped, but his eyes were as lively as they had ever been and his smile was just as bright. "Malcolm, welcome home," he said and hugged me, and I hugged him back hard, overwhelmed with how much I had missed him.

After a minute or two of this I stepped back and said, "Daddy, meet Noel and Caleb Thibodeaux."

"Hello, Mr. Carmichael," Noel said, polite but cautious. He had picked up Caleb, and Caleb clung to him around his neck and peeped at my father shyly.

"Call me Arthur," Dad answered. "No need to be formal with family." He looked at Caleb. "You must be Caleb."

Caleb nodded. "Yes, Mr. Arthur."

"I think you had better call me Granddad," my father replied, and looked up at me with a wink. "Come inside, boys. You look done in." He offered his arms to Caleb and Caleb went into them, and Dad carried him into the house.

I looked at Noel. We smiled at each other, joined hands, and followed.

***

That first night back in the city, I dreamed I was at Fidele -- not the burned-out wreck I knew it to be but as the jewel it had been the first time I saw it, gleaming cream and white in the Louisiana sunshine, with neatly trimmed lawns, abundant flower beds, and ancient cypresses lining the drive.

Simon Thibodeaux and I walked down the drive in companionable silence. He looked lighter than he had before, as if the burdens holding him to Earth were completely gone. He just had one more thing to do.

He said, "Caleb and Noel... you love them as much as I do. I'm glad."

"I do," I said.

"I know they're in good hands," he said, smiling at me, so like Noel I caught my breath.

"Thank you," I said. "I promise I'll take care of them."

"I know," Simon said. "I know you will."

Grace joined us, pretty and dark-haired, in flannel duckling pajamas. She put her arm around Simon and he kissed her. They went on walking to the shining house at the end of the road.

I watched them go, and to my utter lack of surprise Zachary was by my side. "See?" he said. "I told you, you weren't done yet."

"Am I done now?"

He smiled at me, gentle and proud. "No."

We hugged each other. I closed my eyes and held onto him tight, and when he pulled away it was all I could do not to weep. "Be seeing you," I said when he stepped away.

"It had better not be soon," he said, and then followed Grace and Simon up the road.


	40. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue.

At Christmas, Noel, Caleb, and I were still living my father. We looked at houses and apartments, but we could find nothing that really suited the three of us as much as my father's house. On top of that, Caleb liked his school and was making friends in the neighborhood, so when I asked Dad if we could stay a while indefinitely, he smiled and said, "Of course."

Duncan and Phoebe got married not long after we arrived, which gave us another reason to stay -- we didn't want to leave Dad alone once Duncan had moved out. Dad could take care of himself, of course, but why move out when we would be over all the time anyway? Caleb and Dad adored each other, which didn't surprise me, given how mild and gentle my father was; what did surprise me was that Noel and Dad liked each other just as much. Noel called him by his first name for the first three days, and then "Dad" slipped out and Dad didn't correct him, so Dad he remained.

In October, Dad got out the old tent and sleeping bags, and we went into the mountains for one more camping trip before the snows fell. He and Caleb slept in the tent while Noel and I slept outside. We could hear them talking drowsily for an hour after we'd gone to bed, Caleb's piping voice asking sleepier and sleepier questions while Dad answered each one patiently, about the trees and the animals and the stars.

The neighbors thought it odd, of course, and who wouldn't wonder about two bachelors living with a widower and a small child; but my father shut down any rudeness with a well-placed rejoinder and a mild look. We'd always been an unorthodox family and eventually the questions stopped. I supposed they decided it was the Carmichaels being unusual again.

It helped that it was increasingly common in those days to find a pair of old soldiers or sailors living together to comfort each other after the war. Many of them had been discharged at the port of San Francisco, often for homosexuality, and ended up staying. We found more and more places where men like us gathered and could be ourselves.

For Christmas Mary Kate and George brought Rosemary for a week-long visit, so Dad invited all the extended family over for dinner on Christmas Day. Noel was overwhelmed by all of the family; he had met various cousins over the months -- you couldn't turn a corner in this city without bumping into a Carmichael -- but all of them in one place could be a bit much, even for someone used to it.

Noel slipped away before supper, once Caleb was safely playing with his cousins, and I sought him out in the turret at the front of the house. It had been my favorite room when I was growing up and I understood Noel's fondness for it -- it was cozy and comfortable, and you could watch the city light up below as the street made its way down to the Bay.

I leaned in the doorway. "It's almost time to eat."

"I'll be there." He was wedged against a window, his knees drawn up, his gaze on the street outside. I joined him, wrapped an arm around his waist, and rested my chin on his shoulder. He leaned back against me with a sigh.

"I know they're a lot to take in," I said.

"They all seem very pleasant," Noel said.

I chuckled. "So diplomatic."

"They're your family. I'm not going to be insulting for its own sake. Only if required." He leaned his head back to slant a look at me. "I'm hopeful it won't be required."

"I doubt it will be. They know what you are to me." I kissed his temple. "And if they need to ask, I'll tell them."

"Your lover," he murmured.

"My love," I replied. I squeezed him around the waist and he chuckled, and we remained there a few minutes more until someone called up the stairs, "Supper's on!"

Noel had been privy to all of the supper plans -- the turkey and garlic mashed potatoes and bread pudding -- so the look on his face when Mary Kate brought out the birthday cake, lit with thirty-four candles, was absolutely priceless. It wasn't often that I could surprise him, so I relished every chance I had, particularly ones that the rest of the family could be in on. Caleb giggled with glee and Dad looked proud, and Noel's eyes grew bright and damp as the family sang "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" at the tops of their voices.

He looked at me and I smiled at him. At the clamoring of my relatives, Noel bent over the cake to blow out the candles and make a wish.

"What did you wish for, Uncle Noel?" Caleb said.

"I can't tell that," Noel answered, "or it won't come true." He looked at me again -- across the table from him by then, with Rosemary on my knee -- and then picked up the serving knife and started to cut slices.

It still amazes me, how different a house can feel when it's full of love. People had warned me about Fidele that it was a house full of sorrows, and no wonder; it was a dynasty founded on deception, and its descendants paid the price for generations.

This house, while it wasn't half as beautiful as Fidele had been, had no such history. My family was exactly what they presented themselves to be, with their big laughs and bigger hearts; and because I loved Noel, they welcomed him into the family, too.

I thought about this as I lay awake that night, after I had given Noel his birthday present and many kisses; I thought about the ghost of poor Justine, and of Simon and Grace and Zachary, too. Even if Fidele hadn't been haunted, I thought, it would have felt the same, given its history.

"You're thinking," Noel murmured and put his hand on my chest.

I put my hand on top of his. "Am I keeping you awake?"

"No." He scooted closer, tucking his head in the crook of my neck. "But since we're both awake..." He kissed my throat.

I laughed and pulled him to me, and we kept each other awake for a while longer.

***

You know I'm not a religious man. I don't know what waits for us after death. Maybe it's nothing; maybe it's the reward we deserve; maybe it's the reward we feel we deserve.

What I do know is this. After his death, my brother saved my life, protected me, looked out for me. A dead woman appeared to me and guided me to save the life of her son. A dead man told me he trusted me to look after his family as I would my own, because they _were_ my own. And I know that these three people had hearts big enough, had love strong enough, to not only save us from a creature made of rage and fire, but to help her find rest.

So, say what you will about heaven and hell, punishment and rewards. I don't know anything about any of that. What I do know is that there is love and there is death, and of the two, love is stronger. Love will always be stronger.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fidele_ , February 8, 2015-February 27, 2018

**Author's Note:**

> For more of my original fiction, please visit [JennaLynnBrown.com](http://jennalynnbrown.com).


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